


Worthless

by ohgodmyeyes



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anakin Skywalker is Fucking Crazy, Anakin Skywalker is Not Nice, Anakin Skywalker is a Little Shit, Bottom Anakin Skywalker, Breathplay, Burnplay, Choking, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings!, Creepy, Crying, Dom/sub, Domestic Violence, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Escalation, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Human Disaster Anakin Skywalker, Masochism, Mental Instability, One of My Favorites, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Porn, Porn With Plot, Possessive Anakin Skywalker, Possessive Behavior, Reader-Insert, Sadism, Self-Hatred, Slapping, Smut, Suspense, Switching, Unhealthy Relationships, Vaginal Sex, Weird dreams, literally my favourite story I’ve ever written, spitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:54:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22293652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohgodmyeyes/pseuds/ohgodmyeyes
Summary: Sad, regretful Anakin pays you to be cruel to him, because he knows he’s a terrible human being.You don’t think he seems so bad, but he didn’t show up in your room for you to tell him that, so you don’t. All he wants is for you to hurt him.Fortunately for you, hurting Ani is lots of fun... until his own mind begins to get the better of him, anyway.
Relationships: Anakin Skywalker/Reader
Comments: 160
Kudos: 168
Collections: Darkfics for a Stormy Day





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I love this story. ❤️

“Tell me why you’re here again.”

He answered you quietly, “Because no one else can know I need this.”

“That’s right,” you smiled, and then you slapped your client in the face. He winced; the sting brought tears to his eyes, but he didn’t make a sound.

Anakin was one of your favourites, because he knew what he deserved.

“What would your wife do if she knew you were here, _Ani_?” You knew she called him that, because you’d overheard it as he’d spoken to her on the phone. He made a face as though you’d smacked him again when he heard you say it, so you did— hard.

He finally sat down on the bed, then. He looked up at you from there; sad, dejected. The imprint of your hand lingered on his face. You wondered if he was drunk, or just more mired in his own self-hatred than usual. It was always hard to tell with him. Another reason you liked him so much was because he was young, and pretty— barely out of his teens; blonde, and incredibly handsome. A husband and father too, somehow, although you didn’t know much more about his life than that.

Sometimes you thought he was only pretending not to like himself; wondered if he wasn’t just here because he was a pervert, like the rest of them.

Then he’d make a face— some expression like the one he was wearing right now— and you’d remember that he truly believed the things he paid you to say to him.

Often, you didn’t even get to take his clothes off; sometimes, though, you did. What kind of evening with Anakin was this one going to be?

You couldn’t tell yet.

“ _Well?_ Are you going to answer me, or just sit there?”

He whispered, “She would hate me,” and looked down at the rug.

Still standing in front of him, you leaned down to say into his ear, “She already hates you,” which you were certain was _not_ true. However, he hadn’t come to you for reassurance.

“You’re right,” he conceded.

“I know,” you said, with disingenuous regret. “What do you think we should do about that, then?”

He looked back up at you with his sad, wet, blue eyes. You were used to them looking desolate. “You already know,” he told you, because he hated to ask for it.

You loved to make him anyway. “Tell me,” you cooed. _”I forgot.”_

Rage flitted across his face, quickly tempered by shame. “The belt,” he said. He said it clearly; he knew better than to mumble around you.

You smiled, because you loved giving him the belt. But he didn’t mean he wanted you to hit him with it. 

You walked to the other side of the room, opened a drawer, and retrieved the object he’d requested. You threaded the leather strap through the brass eye. You walked back over to him; he was still seated on the bed.

“Look at me, Ani.”

He didn’t. He’d ceased seeming especially sad, and now just appeared blank— staring at the wall. He had to be drunk tonight, you thought. 

_”Look at me!”_ He winced again, but he also obeyed you. You loved to shout at him; he always reacted to it. “That’s better,” you said. Since his head was tilted upward now, you slipped the belt gently over it. He didn’t blink, or move.

Once it was around his neck, you wasted no time in wrenching the end of the strap harshly.

He did make a noise, then; a strangled gasp mixed up with a cry of pain. It was wonderful. You weren’t strong enough to make him fall, so you waited for him to catch his breath, and then you did it again; relished his stifled yell.

You looked down between his legs as he recovered, and noticed through his pants that he was already hard. Sometimes choking him made him horny, and sometimes it didn’t. You corrected yourself: He couldn’t be _that_ drunk tonight, if his cock was stiff.

“You’re disgusting,” you observed. As you motioned at the outline of his inexplicable arousal, “What the fuck is that?” 

He was breathing more heavily now, on account of your abuse of his neck. A little bit hoarsely, he answered, “Nothing.”

You laughed. “You know what? You’re right. It’s nothing— I should just ignore it, shouldn’t I?”

He didn’t say anything. He’d resumed his blank stare, so you tugged the end of the belt again. You weren’t so rough this time. You caught his attention as the leather strap tightened once more. He looked into your eyes; you looked back, and you continued, slowly, to pull. He started to wheeze, and his face began to redden, so you held on tightly for another moment before finally letting go.

He gasped; jolted. Then he just sat, breathing hard.

You left the belt hanging around him and knelt down between his legs. You hadn’t meant what you’d said about ignoring it, so you grasped his length through the fabric of his pants. The material was thin, like something someone would wear to an office. Anakin didn’t look like someone who worked in an office though, really, you reflected as you undid his belt— the one around his waist, of course.

He looked like someone who was physical, and who did physical work— he had big shoulders and a broad chest; it seemed to you he was all stiff, warm muscle. If you had to guess based on the composition of his body, you’d have figured he worked lifting and hauling things— on a farm, or in a factory.

Alas, he paid you more than most people who did jobs like that would have been able to pay you— plus, he only had one hand. That might have stood out to you more, if the rest of him had been plain... but, Anakin was not plain.

Right now, the only thing standing out to you was his cock: It almost seemed to lunge as you freed it; it was as desperate as its owner was sad. You ran a single finger along the length of it; licked at the tiny, glistening drop which formed at its tip in response to your touch. 

You looked up at Anakin’s forlorn face, then. “She can’t possibly hate this, too, can she?” You squeezed his shaft; shook your head. “Too bad for her it’s attached to _you._ ”

He recoiled at that. It was easier to hurt his feelings than it was any other part of him. You debated whether you should pull out a bigger weapon yet, or wait until later.

You decided it was too difficult to wait. 

You continued as you traced gentle lines around his head with the tip of your nail, “You said you almost killed her, didn’t you?” You had no idea how true that was, but couldn’t imagine him lying about it. He made an indiscernible noise; you kept on, “She’s probably just still with you because she’s scared, you know.”

_”Fuck.”_

You grinned, and stood back up. You grasped the end of the belt around his neck, but you didn’t pull on it; just fingered the edge of it gingerly. “Is that the kind of night it is tonight, then?”

His jaw trembled, and he nodded his head. 

“Did you two have a fight, Ani? _You can tell me._ ” He could tell you anything— you didn’t care, after all.

He whispered with a hint of a rasp, _”Yes,”_ and then he seemed to blink something out of his eye.

You sighed, and yanked the leather strap tight once more.

“Augh!” He almost did fall, that time, but his dick didn’t get any softer.

“Is that better?”

A few tears finally began to fall from his eyes; not many, but enough of them that you noticed. Still quietly he answered, “Yes... yes, it’s better.”

“You hate fucking me, don’t you?”

With a long, shuddering breath, “More than anything.”

You laughed, let go of the belt entirely, and slapped him again. Your hand came back damp this time; wet with those tears. “Take your clothes off, Anakin.”

He nodded, and started to unbutton his shirt with his left hand. His right was not only artificial, but special to him— which you only knew because he seemed to treat it better than he treated himself. He’d take it off, soon; leave it with his clothes.

Those landed in a pile on the floor as he shed them; first his shirt, and then his pants, which you helped him heave off as he kicked away his socks and shoes. He was a marvellous sight to behold with nothing on, but you didn’t tell him so. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear.

Then, his arm; held on by a black sheath, which he loosened and peeled away. He tucked the whole thing under the bed, once it was off, because it had always been safe there. You didn’t know what had happened to him that he needed it, but you didn’t care about that any more than you did about why he’d been fighting with his wife. It wasn’t relevant.

He sat in the same position he’d been in before— naked, now, save for the thick leather strap around his neck. You used it on him again, then, and as his head went back, you slapped his face with your free hand. He made a noise, and you pulled tighter. You reached down between his legs, found he was still very much aroused, and laughed at him again. 

You demanded, “What’s _wrong_ with you?” And you let go of the belt.

He coughed for a minute, this time, before he could finally answer, _”I don’t know.”_

You leaned in closely and grasped his chin with the hand you’d been using to choke him. You squeezed his cock hard with the other; ran your thumb over its slick, hungry tip. You forced him to stare into your eyes, which meant you had to stare into his— he _was_ drunk, you realized, just not enough to quell his hard-on at your devaluation of him. 

"That's a shame, Anakin. Do you think this will fix it?"

He moved his head; tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to shake your hand from his face. "Not for long," he admitted. He always seemed so far away: Pulling him into the present was like a game for you, in the intricacy of its challenge.

Instead of using words to answer him, you pinched your fingers together. His mouth opened, and you spit into the back of his throat. 

He gagged at that, and after one more demanding tug of his cock, you shoved him back onto the bed as roughly as you could. You faced absolutely no resistance as he fell. His knees were still bent over the edge, so you dropped to the floor to crawl between them.

You grabbed that sad hard-on of his with one hand; ran the other up his body. He never actually asked you to stroke him that way, but you liked to feel his stomach— it was impossibly firm, and lots of fun to touch. Anyway, you were certain that doing so made him feel even worse about being here, and Anakin seemed to love to feel worse.

With that in mind, “You’re so strong— she must have been _terrified_. What were you thinking?” He’d told you about his having assaulted her the first time he came to you. You could tell it weighed heavily on his mind.

As he stared at the ceiling, “I was scared.”

“Wow,” you said simply. “You really are sick, then, aren’t you?”

He finally started to cry audibly, and so with a satisfied smile, you turned your attention back to his cock. After licking up some more of what your cruelty had made drip from it, you enveloped it with your mouth. Your nails dug into the sturdy warmth of his abdomen as his pubic hair tickled your nose. You thought he tasted wonderful, but again, he had not come here to be complimented. 

His breath caught in his throat. He coughed again, and then yelled out. He might have been groaning in ecstasy or sobbing in pain; it was impossible to tell.

Rhythmically, you began to move your head up and down. Before the tip of his cock hit the back of your throat, you made sure to let it clip your teeth; that made his thighs tense up pleasantly. You started off slowly, but it was impossible not to pick up your pace. You raised the hand you weren’t using to scratch his stomach, and cupped his balls warmly. He started to buck his hips at that; a glance upward told you he’d begun to grip the bedsheet with his hand.

You kept going, for a little while at least— but then you could feel him start to throb. You knew he wouldn’t want to be let off so easily.

Abruptly— and with a twist of his sack— you removed your mouth and your hands from his body; stood up to look down at him. He’d closed his eyes in spite of himself, but they shot open, now. He shouted, let go of the blanket, and pounded the mattress with his fist— just once, but very hard. He didn’t say anything.

You laughed again; admired the way his unhappy erection quivered with his ragged breathing. He gazed up at you pathetically. 

“She thinks you’re at work right now, doesn’t she?”

He nodded.

You loved to make him feel like a burden, so with a heavy sigh you reminded him, “She deserves a lot better than you, Anakin,” and you began to peel off the bottom half of your own outfit. 

Once free, you climbed atop him and straddled his waist with your knees. He watched you. You could feel his cock brush up against you from behind as you reached down to grab at the end of the belt again. You almost thought you caught his eyes begging you not to do it this time, but you ignored that.

He wasn’t saying anything, after all.

You wrenched harshly again, which was very easy from your new angle, and he made another garbled, breathless noise as the strap tightened around his neck. You kept it pulled taut as you shifted adeptly to guide his cock into you. It really was very easy— another thing you’d never have told him directly was how his body made you so eager, and so wet. 

By the time you’d buried him inside, his face had begun to turn too red, and so you dropped the end of the belt. You swore you could feel his hard-on twitch as he gasped air back into his lungs. 

You waited for him to look comfortable again; or at least, as comfortable as he ever got. Once he was, you slapped him again.

“Look at me,” you ordered.

He did so very reluctantly. His skin was mottled, his eyes were wet, and he still bore your handprint on one of his tear-stained cheeks.

“There,” you said decisively. “Now let’s get this over with.” You clenched tightly around his cock, leaned in closely to him, and said very quietly— so he knew these words were just for him— “You are a fucking _travesty_ , Anakin.”

He made another mournful noise because he truly believed that. You used one of your hands to steady yourself on the bed, and wrapped the length of the leather belt tightly in the other. You pulled on it at the same time as you began to rock your hips.

It felt exquisite to have him gliding in and out of you; it always did. He hated it, of course, because you were not his wife— but that was part of the point. He had told you explicitly that he was here to be reminded: Reminded of his own deficiencies; that he was a piece of shit.

He thought he would be dangerous if he forgot.

You believed his logic was a bit dubious, of course. It wasn’t your job to question his motivations, however, so you simply helped him the way he had decided he needed to be helped. 

“Nngh! _Augh!_ ”

Your rocking had quickly turned to slamming, and his face was now an unsettling shade of scarlet. In your own frenzy, you pulled harder on the belt; desperation entered his eyes. Just as his hand came up to try to tug the strap away, you felt his entire body clench. As you bucked your hips, then, he exploded inside of you— entirely against his own will.

You made a noise too, finally— a heavy, contented sigh as you felt him drain and drip. You released your hold on the belt; he was able to get his fingers up underneath it, then, and he pulled it loose as he trembled and gasped.

You climbed off of him the same way you’d climbed on— from between his legs, which were now hanging limply over the edge— and stood at the end of the bed to stare at him.

He was _gorgeous._

“You really are fucking disgusting,” was what you told him instead.

He groaned, and rubbed his neck with his hand.

A bit more kindly— you could be a little nicer to him, now— you asked, “Do you need to sleep for a while?”

He nodded.

“Okay,” you said. Then, “It takes a lot out of you, doesn’t it? Being like this?”

He didn’t answer you. He just crawled up to the head of the bed, rolled onto his side, and stared at the wall as he continued to catch his breath. He didn’t take the belt off. His eyes closed eventually; when they did, you walked into the bathroom to start to clean yourself up.

As you stood in front of the mirror, you heard his phone beeping from inside the pants he’d left at the end of the bed. You knew it was his wife— she was always calling him, when he was here: At least once, every time. She probably called him a lot the rest of the time, too, although you couldn’t know. You rarely saw him answer her, and that made you feel sad.

Maybe if he would, you mused, he wouldn’t feel the need to come to you.

You shrugged, and resumed washing. 

He had paid you, so it didn’t matter. And anyway— your services, although not cheap by any means, were certainly less expensive than those of a psychiatrist. You wondered if Anakin had even considered that, then smiled darkly to yourself as you realized you hoped he hadn’t. 

If he got _real_ help, after all, he might stop coming to you. 

You wouldn’t have wanted that, because Anakin really was one of your favourites.


	2. Chapter 2

You took a long drag of one of Anakin's cigarettes and asked him, “You can’t really want me to do this, can you?”

“You don’t understand,” he said. He was right— you didn’t. 

You sighed, because this was a bit different from what you were used to. Then, you remembered that he wasn’t here for your own wavering uncertainty any more than he was here for your kindness, and so you steeled yourself.

Before you went ahead, “...Won’t your wife notice this?” You were asking partly because you wanted to remind him of just what he was doing; partly because you were genuinely a bit curious.

You couldn’t see his expression, because you were straddling his bare back. You were still dressed; he was wearing only his pants. He sighed as he answered you, “No.”

With a smile, “Oh. Did she finally come to her senses and leave, or has she just stopped fucking you, _Ani?_ ”

You thought you heard him growl as his shoulders tensed, but he didn’t respond to that with words. You hadn’t believed him capable of violence when you’d first encountered him, but every so often he would show you a hint of what you could only guess was typically well-concealed rage. It always seemed raw to you.

It would have frightened you, but you almost couldn’t reconcile it with the rest of his obvious brokenness, so you tended to ignore it. Sometimes, though, he didn’t let you do that— like right now, with his growling.

You dug your knees into his ribs and squeezed him hard between your legs. Then, you took the cigarette you’d been smoking between your thumb and forefinger, and jammed it roughly into the space between his shoulder blades— just as he had asked.

He yelled; cursed. You knew he really felt it; he wasn’t drunk tonight.

“Did you like that?” The smell of burnt flesh combined with tobacco and the hot fibreglass from your cigarette’s filter to create a wafting stench that made you wrinkle your nose. 

“Fuck! No!” 

“Should I have one more?” You laughed; dropped the now-extinguished butt beside the bed.

When he didn’t answer, you gathered his hair in your fist and pulled his head back. As you twisted your hand, you leaned down to ask into his ear, “Well?”

He made an odd noise— was he already crying, tonight?— and whispered, “I don’t care what you do, as long as it hurts.”

“You’re a sick fuck,” you told him, and as you sat up tall atop him again, you raked the nails of your free hand down his side; over his ribs. “I know what you need,” you said, and you dismounted him with a swing of your leg. He sighed when you let go of his hair and let his head fall unceremoniously to the mattress; he sounded defeated, now, instead of angry.

That was better.

You walked across the room; opened the drawer in which you kept that leather belt he liked so much. It wasn’t what you wanted right now, though— instead of the strap you usually used to choke Anakin, you retrieved a small, very shiny set of brass knuckles. There was nothing overtly sexual about them; but then, there was really nothing overtly sexual about the pain he wanted you to impose on him. Sometimes you didn’t even have sex with him, but when you did, it nearly seemed incidental: Just another means to an end; another way to hurt him.

For you, of course, it was infinitely more fun to ride his cock than it was to flog him with your fist. That being said, you knew what he was here for, and that he would never have allowed the former without some iteration of the latter.

This— aside from the thick fistful of twenty dollar bills he’d arrived with— was why you slipped the metal loops onto your hand, now, and paced back over to where Anakin still lay flat on his stomach. Without warning him, you pulled your arm back and delivered a sharp jab to his ribs, right over the fresh scratches you’d left with your nails.

_”Shit!”_

“Goddamn, Anakin— you’re a fucking _brick._ What did you say you did to her? How is she even still alive?”

He sobbed— he _was_ crying. You hit him with your fist again; first in the same spot, then up a little bit higher. If he hadn’t been tensing and groaning with each impact, you wouldn’t have even thought he felt your blows: He really was that solid.

You felt yourself throb between your legs at this thought; he was the only one of these men who ever made you feel anything other than boredom or pity. Anakin, for all his apparent damage, was a delectable treat.

You hit him lower this time; closer to his kidney. 

“Augh!”

“If I hit you in just the right spot,” you grinned, “you’ll piss yourself. Should I hit you there... _Ani?_ ” He wasn’t saying nearly enough; you wanted to goad him into answering you.

He seemed to understand: He heaved himself over onto his side, and stared up at you. He should have looked angry, but he didn’t— just desperate; despairing. “I told you,” he said. “Do whatever you want, just _please_ make it hurt.”

You thought about making fun of him some more, but he looked so sad— you didn’t say anything to him. You just drew back and punched him: In the jaw, because it was so easy now that he was facing you.

You weren’t strong enough to really hurt him, you thought, but he clearly hadn’t seen that coming.

“Ah— _fuck!_ ” He almost fell back, but he was holding himself up with his good arm. With no hand available to reach up and touch his face, though, he just shook his head and stared down blankly at the bed.

Without asking, you did it one more time. His head was tilted, now, so you caught his ear instead of his jaw. He drew a sharp breath in through his teeth, but he didn’t yell.

You stopped, then; waited.

After staring at the sheets for a few moments, he finally looked back up at you. 

“One more,” he said flatly. Then added, “In the face.”

You nodded, and fulfilled his request. He was prepared this time, so he barely moved— but when you brought your hand back to you, you noticed his lip had started to bleed. You _almost_ thought you detected the shadow of a smile on his face, but if it was there at all, it left him quickly.

“You love this,” you sneered.

He seemed to feel around the inside of his mouth with his tongue. Then, he spit some blood out onto the bed. “I hate it,” he said quietly. He added with great reluctance, “...But you know I need it.”

You wanted to shake your head at that, but you didn’t. You climbed onto the bed instead; he was laying on his back now, so you sat next to him. You took off your brass knuckles, placed them on the floor, and then leaned into Anakin. After putting your hand firmly on his chest, you dragged it down the length of his body; felt those muscles you so liked to admire clench uncomfortably at your touch. You let your fingernail catch his bellybutton; smiled at the gasp he stifled. 

Finally, you reached his pants; fingered the buckle on his belt. 

He began to protest, “No— not tonight, I—”

“ _Shh._ You’re hard as a rock under there, Anakin. I can see it,” you said as you pulled the belt undone and fingered his erection through his zipper.

“I don’t want—”

You looked back at his face. His eyes were still red; his lip had swollen a bit. He looked like an angel— an angel who’d been punched in the mouth, anyway.

“Yes you do,” you insisted, and proceeded to unbutton his pants to free his cock. 

He gasped, “Please— _don’t—_ ” But you had already wrapped your hand around his shaft and started to slowly pump it up and down.

“Quiet— you’re here to remember what an incredible piece of human trash you are, aren’t you?”

He squeezed his eyes shut and nodded his head.

“Then let me help you feel like garbage— because you _are_ garbage, Ani.” You squeezed him, and then leaned down to tease his cock with your tongue. He squirmed and groaned, but didn’t move away; didn’t try to stop you.

Just as you felt him begin to accept the unwanted attention you were paying to his shameful hard-on, you withdrew your mouth from it. He couldn’t help but object with a frustrated noise and a clenched fist.

“See? You do love this,” you laughed. You couldn’t really be sure if he did or didn’t, but it clearly pained him for you to imply that he did.

It pained him so much he looked like he might start crying again, but instead he just lay back on the bed. You tugged at his pants until he was free of them; tossed them on the floor. 

Weakly, he protested once more, “I really don’t—”

As you wiggled yourself out of what you’d been wearing on your own lower half, you hissed at him, _”Shut up, Anakin.”_ It came out even more harshly than you had intended, but that wasn’t a bad thing.

He grimaced as you clambered atop him. You didn’t waste any time in sliding him into you; his dick was still as hard and as tense as the rest of him. He groaned, and looked up at you with watery, pleading eyes. Was he begging you to stop, or begging you to start?

It didn’t matter, so you began to move your hips.

As you did, he focused his gaze on the ceiling, as he so often did. You didn’t like to let him get too far away from you— because if he did, there would be no point to this. You slowed your pace, then stopped to bend over him. You used one hand on the bed to balance yourself as you had before, but this time your other one went to his throat.

You had never choked him with your bare hand before.

He made a noise; you smiled as his gaze returned to you. “How’s this, Ani? Do you like it?” You squeezed your fingers tightly. He shook his head as best he could; indicated that, no, he did not like it. You answered that with, “Perfect,” and resumed fucking him.

Your hand, you realized, had scarcely ever seemed quite so small to you as when you were imposing violence on Anakin. Even his neck— it should have seemed vulnerable— was thick, and strong. You dug your nails up behind his chin; pinched hard. He coughed, which you could feel through your entire body, and tried to squeeze his eyes shut again. This made you press harder, and as his face began to change colour, his lids blinked back open.

He tried to say something, but you had no idea what it was: He couldn’t push enough air out of his lungs to get his point across. This meant you ignored him; just continued to push on his neck, and ride his cock. Your hand felt warm; he was radiating heat, and you loved it.

Suddenly, his hand shot up to cover yours; the one you were using to choke him. He started to try to tug at your wrist. This made you feel slightly taken aback, as you were not used to resistance of any kind from Anakin— but he didn’t pull hard (maybe he couldn’t?), and it was you who ultimately decided to release him from your grasp.

He sputtered when you finally did, drew in a harsh breath, and clasped your hand tightly against his own chest as he shouted and bucked his hips upward. You hadn’t expected him to go off so soon any more than you’d expected him to try to remove your hand from his neck, but he did. You clenched around him, and revelled in the way he throbbed as he drained. Once he had, you slid him out of your cunt as you took your place beside him on the bed again. 

You pulled your hand out from under his; you so rarely touched one another’s hands that to do so felt a bit unsettling. As he lay on his back catching his breath, you decided you wanted to trace lines onto his stomach with your finger, so you did. He shuddered.

He said with a husky rasp, _”Stop.”_

You smiled down at him. “I’m sorry, Anakin. You’re _beautiful_ trash; I can’t help myself.” You wondered how he would respond to that, because you had never actually hinted with your words that his body was attractive to you before.

He scowled darkly, which you were not used to— then, he grabbed your wrist and removed your hand from his abdomen. “I’m fucking serious,” he said as authoritatively as he could through the pain in his throat.

You didn’t mean to let them, but your eyes widened a bit at his assertiveness; you weren’t accustomed to it. You didn’t concede to him verbally, but you did stand, then. Calmly, you asked him the same way you always did, “Do you need to sleep?” 

Typically you did not let anyone sleep here, but you felt bad for Anakin, and anyway— you liked to watch him. He never quite slept peacefully, which meant you always got to see him toss and turn at least a little bit. It was great fun.

He stared past you for a minute; seemed to be making a decision. Finally, “Yes,” and he slowly rolled over to stare at the wall in his usual way.

“Alright,” you said, but this time you headed for the bathroom before you knew he was asleep. By the time you had finished undressing and had bent over to turn on the tap for a shower, his phone was ringing— but you could also tell from his breathing that he had gone unconscious. You were glad to drown out his wife’s concern with the sound of the water.

You took your time, but eventually you were dried and dressed again; sitting on a chair in your room scrolling through your own phone as Anakin slept. You’d peer up at him from it every so often; eye a part of his body you especially liked. He didn’t make much noise; at least, not until he’d been asleep for so long you had absorbed yourself in a video and ceased taking notice of him.

Very suddenly— he’d never done this before— he shot up in bed like a bolt. You nearly dropped your phone as you looked up at him and he shouted, _”Fuck!”_

He was wide-eyed and sweaty, the sheen on his skin highlighted fresh goosebumps, and he was as tense as you’d ever seen him as his chest heaved with rapid breaths. You almost didn’t want to know, but you asked anyway, “What’s wrong?”

It seemed as though he were just noticing you as he looked in your direction; he almost appeared startled by your presence. After taking a moment to slow his breathing, he answered you, “Nothing.” Then, much to your surprise, he added, “...Dreams,” in a whisper.

What? “Dreams?”

“Dreams.”

“...Okay,” you said. This was already more conversation with him than you were used to; it felt strange. You’d never witnessed him wake up because of a dream, either. Come to think of it, he’d seemed a bit ‘off’ all night... not that he was ever exactly ‘on’. He continued to seem distressed, so you asked in spite of yourself, “What kinds of dreams?”

It was almost as if he’d forgotten who he was talking to as he answered earnestly, “Awful ones.”

You motioned for him to continue; to your surprise he did:

“She’s dying.”

“What?”

“My wife,” he said. “In my dream— she’s dying, and there’s nothing I can do.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. “It’s just a dream,” you tried. You had never thought dreams were especially meaningful; just a person’s brain chewing on the day’s leftovers.

“No,” he said. “This feels... different.” He shook his head; froze. “...I have to go,” he finally spit out, and he got up from the bed swiftly to begin dressing himself.

You felt confused; made a face indicating as much, but you didn’t rise from your seat. You simply watched him as he tugged his pants on as fast as he could, and fastened them one-armed. After that, he dropped to his knees to retrieve his missing piece from under the bed, replaced it securely, and slid his shirt back on. He could do up the buttons on it, and so he did— but he missed a couple of them in what was quickly turning into a panic. You didn’t point that out.

“Hey,” you said. “Maybe you should—”

He glared at you. “You’re off the clock, now— _shut the fuck up._ ”

You scowled at him much the same way he’d scowled at you, but put your hands up in front of yourself to indicate that you weren’t going to argue. “Fine,” you said to him. “Don’t crash your car freaking out over a dream, then, alright?” You didn’t really care one way or another if he did, but you thought his reaction to having had a nightmare was odd and unreasonable.

He gathered his things and replaced his shoes relatively quickly, and after a fast glance at his phone, he was out the door without another word. You could hear his car start up and pull away from outside— he certainly wasn’t wasting any time.

You shook your head and went back to what you’d been doing on your phone before Anakin had woken up. In spite of his attractiveness, you’d thought him strange since you met him— and his outburst just now had only made him seem even more so.

Surely if he loved his wife enough to work himself into a frenzy over her safety, he could talk to her about whatever had transpired between them to make him feel he deserved regular punishment from you...?

If he could, though, you figured he already would have.

You settled into some time to yourself with a shrug, secure in the knowledge that he would come back to you soon. He’d baffled you a bit that night, but objectively speaking, he had always been baffling. 

What you wouldn’t have admitted was that your saddest, most beautiful client had finally also become intriguing to you. There was nothing you could do about that; nothing you really wanted to do about it, in fact. 

It was a thought, though, which lingered in your mind as you spent the rest of your evening in peaceful silence.


	3. Chapter 3

He was crying again, but this time it was more because of you than anything else.

“Do you want it like _this_ , Anakin?” You drew back your foot and kicked him again. He was curled into a ball on your floor; you were wearing a set of steel-toed work boots he had brought you himself. He had gotten them for you specifically to do this job; however, you selfishly hoped that he would leave you with them once he left: They were comfortable, and you liked the way they looked.

“Ah— _fuck_ — did I tell you to stop?”

You shrugged, even though he wasn’t looking at you. “No,” you answered, and you did it again. It was his ribs you were assaulting right now, much as you had when you’d worn your brass knuckles to beat him with your fist. You didn’t want to catch his kidney with these boots— or his liver, or anything else he truly needed to function. He _was_ drunk tonight, and he wouldn’t have felt it if he’d started to die on you.

You didn’t want Anakin to die on you.

“I think you need to take a break, Ani,” you said. You were being honest: You’d been kicking him for several minutes now, and he’d called you out when you had tried to spare him the full brunt of your strength. You had started tentatively on his legs; tried literally kicking his ass, even, but that hadn’t satisfied him— so you’d worked your way up higher. This, however, felt especially unsafe.

“I’m not paying you to give me advice, I’m paying you to kick me— _so kick me._ ”

“Anakin, I...”

“Are you a doctor or a whore?” That made you _want_ to kick him again.

“I resent that, you know.”

He looked up at you and snarled, “I don’t give a fuck what you ‘resent’!”

You knelt down on the floor, at that. You stared into his eyes for a moment and proceeded to reach out and grasp a handful of his hair. It had been shorter when he’d first come to you, but he’d been letting it grow since, and you loved to yank and twist it— maybe he had grown it because he liked that, too, you considered briefly. 

You wrenched it harshly.

“For as long as you are in this room,” you said, _”I_ am in charge of _you_ — do you understand that?” You refused to take bullshit from any of these men... even from the prettiest one of the entire bunch. So, when you knew you’d caught his eye with your own, you gathered whatever moisture you could from the inside of your mouth, and spit into his face for good measure. He winced; reached up with the scarred remnant of his right arm to wipe it off.

For a fleeting moment, he looked absolutely mired in rage, but that expression was quickly replaced by one of defeat as he asked you in a more docile fashion, “Can I have a cigarette, then?”

“Yes,” you answered, and you let go of his hair.

He pushed himself up onto his feet with his hand somewhat unsteadily. You could have reached out to help him, but you didn’t. He was wearing neither his shirt nor his artificial arm, but he did still have his pants. He reached into the pocket of them to pull out what was now a slightly-crumpled pack of cigarettes. He didn’t seem to mind that the one he shook out of it was a bit bent. 

After lighting it, he paced back and forth to smoke. He’d always been pale, and his skin already showed clear evidence of your having kicked his ribs. You wished he would slow down; you thought he was moving too much.

“Why don’t you sit for a minute,” you suggested.

He stopped pacing, and stared at you. Then, he shook his head and continued again. He was drunk: He should never have been this jittery. He was making you feel a bit strange, and for Anakin, that was saying a lot.

“Look,” you ventured, “If you want me to phone you a cab, I—”

“—I can’t go home!” 

“Well, you wouldn’t have to go there, I just—”

“Just what? Don’t want me here?” He sounded combative, which was unusual for him, at least in the midst of one of his visits to you.

“I didn’t say that,” you told him— and you hadn’t. “I’m just not sure what you expect to get out of this tonight. You seem...”

“Seem _what_?” He was downright agitated.

“You seem... tired,” you said, as diplomatically as you could.

He glared at you. “I am tired,” he spat out.

“...Do you need to sleep?” Normally he only slept in your room after sex, but if laying down and closing his eyes for a while would even him out a bit...

_”No!”_

You winced at how loudly he shouted his objection. You hadn’t seen him for a couple of weeks before now, and you were starting to notice how over-wrought he looked as he walked about the room. You wondered just how much he had or hadn’t been sleeping recently. 

You also thought about just what to do with him— he didn’t want to leave, he didn’t want to fuck, and you were just about done with kicking him.

“What do you want to do, then, Anakin?”

He took one last drag off of his cigarette, extinguished it in an ashtray you’d set out specifically for him, and looked at you. He seemed more broken than angry again, all of a sudden. You wondered how he changed so quickly. 

Much more quietly, “I don’t know.” Then, after a pause, “...You’re not going to kick me anymore, are you?”

You took a deep breath and shook your head. “No— not until you sober up and get some rest,” which he did not respond to. So, you added irreverently, “I like the boots, though.”

“I’m glad,” he said, but he didn’t look glad.

“Can I keep them?”

“They fit, don’t they?” He reached for his cigarettes again; he seemed to need another. You knew he liked them, but he wasn’t in the habit of chain-smoking them, as far as you knew.

“Yeah— perfectly, actually.” It occurred to you that he would have to have peeked into your closet (and into at least one of your shoes) to know what size to buy.

“They’re yours, then.” He’d stopped looking at you and started pacing again.

“...Do you want a drink, Anakin?” You knew he’d been drinking before he’d arrived, because you had smelled it on his breath and heard it in his voice. Maybe your kicking had perked him up, you thought— perked him up too much.

You had never offered him a drink before. He stopped, to your relief, and looked at you. He seemed skeptical, however— and he didn’t speak.

“Look,” you said, “I just want you to calm down, okay?” You really did. Tonight was turning out to be anything but a normal visit with Anakin. You were beginning to get fed up with him, but you were also not quite prepared to acknowledge to yourself that if you told him to leave and he didn’t, you’d be a bit stuck.

“I can’t calm down,” he told you.

You wished he hadn’t said that because it meant you had to ask, “Why?”

He looked at the wall as he answered, “Dreams.”

Really? Still with the dreams? “Oh,” you said.

More to himself, it seemed, than you, he near-whispered, “I _have_ to save her.”

Oh no. “Anakin, dreams aren’t real,” you told him in no uncertain terms.

“You don’t understand,” he said, but you thought you understood completely: He was losing it. Again unprompted, he continued, “I have to stay away from her right now.”

Stay away from his wife, he meant? You sighed; asked again, “Why?” You didn’t care why, really, but you had always thought he’d be happier if he talked to her more.

“I need to keep her safe,” he reiterated. It still didn’t entirely seem like he was talking to you.

A twinge of nervousness in your gut as you stood looking at him; then, “...What are your dreams about, exactly?”

After sucking hard on the filter of his cigarette, “I told you— she dies.”

“So why do you need to stay away from her?” You thought you already knew, but you wanted to hear him say it. 

_”Because last time it was me.”_ He finally stopped again and looked directly at you.

“You...?”

“I killed her!”

Fuck. “Anakin, dreams aren’t real,” you told him again. Now you did want him to leave, but weren’t quite sure how to get that across to him while he was in this state. 

He took you in a circle by saying once more, “You don’t understand.”

“No,” you admitted, “I don’t. But honestly? I think we’re better off trying this again another time, alright? I’ll call you a—”

 _”No!”_ He put his cigarette in the ashtray and used his hand to pull his wallet out of his back pocket. He let it flip open in his palm; you could see that it was stuffed full of cash. “How much do you want?”

“Anakin—”

“I’m fucking serious— if you keep kicking me, you can have all of it.”

You shook your head. He wasn’t being himself. “You already paid to be here, and I’m not going to kick you anymore.”

He threw his wallet down on the same table you’d set the ashtray on top of, and picked his still-burning smoke out of it. You thought he was going to say something, but instead he just resumed his pacing.

Wonderful.

“Anakin.” You tried to get his attention again.

_”What?”_

You were nearly at a loss for words, but you told him as decidedly as you could, “You can only stay if you _sit the fuck down._ Alright?”

You must have used a tone closer to the one you typically used to give him orders, that time... or else he simply realized he’d lost the argument, because he conceded to that, and sat on the bed. You sat, too— in the chair from which you usually liked to watch him sleep.

You looked at him, thought to yourself how odd it felt to really converse with him, and then wished he were in the mood to do something other than pace around your room and yell about his dreams. 

After his cigarette went out in his hand and you’d been sitting in silence a while, he finally said to you, “...I’m sorry, okay?”

“It’s... alright. But you have to know...”

“What?”

_”Dreams aren’t real, Anakin.”_

He shook his head sadly, dropped his cigarette butt onto your rug, and said yet again, “You don’t understand.” Then, he looked at you again. “If you won’t kick me anymore, then what _will_ you do?”

That made you feel relieved, so you smiled. “Anything that won’t cause internal bleeding— at least not until I know you’re sober.”

He laughed, which you had never heard before, and answered, “Fine, then. Get the belt.”

You shrugged, and did as he asked. At least he was being a bit more compliant, now. When you came back to slip it over his head, however, he looked even more far away than he normally did to you... and no amount of pulling the strap or slapping his face seemed to bring him any closer.

That was fine for you, of course, because you hadn’t especially enjoyed his most ‘present’ moments that night— not by any means. However, you thought as you checked between his legs for a hard-on (there was none this evening), he had made you feel both frightened of and curious about those dreams of his.

What, exactly, did he do to her in them? When did they start? And why did he take them so fucking _seriously_?

You thought his dreams were more likely an expression of his own anxiety about the mistake he’d made by assaulting her in the first place than a premonition of what was to come. You certainly didn’t think his seemingly-singular focus on them would help them go away; you also didn’t think beating him up over and over would stop them from coming true.

Then, you realized you didn’t like how much you thought about him in the first place. This made you uncomfortable, and just upset enough to wrench the belt a bit too hard. He fell back onto your bed in his surprise; you let go of the strap.

“That’s enough,” you said. “You need to rest, or I’ll never get you out of here.” He still wasn’t hard— this just wasn’t making him horny; not tonight, anyway. That was all well and good, because it wasn’t doing much for you, either.

You could see the bruising on his ribs very clearly now, the redness encircling his neck contrasted sharply with the rest of him, and your handprint stood out on his cheek. He looked tense and tired, and his hair was a mess from your pulling and twisting it. 

He hadn’t answered you, so you told him, “You look like a sack of shit, Anakin.”

You must have said or done something to soothe him, or else he was finally tired now, because he seemed to acquiesce to your insult: He rolled over onto his side, and looked at the wall. You didn’t try to touch him; just stood up and left for the bathroom.

His body was perfect, but you’d had a bit too much of the rest of him tonight. You hoped he would fall asleep soon— and that he would wake up acting more like himself; or at least, the version of him you were more used to: Co-operative, quiet, and almost meek in his level of self-subjugation.

After spending too much time taking a shower you didn’t really need, you wandered back out to take a seat in your chair. There wasn’t much you could do, now, other than wait for Anakin to wake up and leave.

You’d nearly fallen asleep yourself, phone in hand, by the time you heard his loud, gravelly cursing. You had hoped he wouldn’t do that this time— you’d have to stop letting him sleep here at all if it kept up, you knew, but you hated the thought of telling him so for more than one reason.

With a sigh, you asked calmly, “What’s wrong?”

He was sweaty, cold, and tense— just like last time. He caught his breath, and looked up at you. Again, it was as though he had only just realized you were there.

“I did it again,” he said. “It was me again. Why the fuck is it me?” He spoke quietly; he seemed in awe of his own false vision.

He definitely couldn’t sleep here anymore, you decided. You’d text him as much later on. For now, “You didn’t do anything,” you pointed out. “You were asleep.” You also wanted to say, _you’re fucking crazy,_ but you thought better of it.

He shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “I have to go— but I’ll be back, okay?”

 _No, not okay,_ was what you thought; what you said, however, was “Um— when do you think...?” His behaviour had unsettled you to the point where you were reluctant to have him back. You wanted time, at least, to formulate a plan to deal with him in the event that he became unmanageable for you. You very much liked how big and strong he was— but only if he was going to be obedient.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I just know I’m going to need you again, and soon.” He stood up; collected his arm. As he began to put it on, “You’re helping me keep her safe.”

 _No, no, no._ “Well, you’re going to have to call a few days ahead, then.”

He was in the middle of putting his shirt on, now. His paused and his eyes widened as he asked you incredulously, “A few _days?_ ” You had never requested quite so much prior notice from him; you both knew it.

“Yeah. My landlord is doing renovations soon,” you lied. You lived in a spacious one-room apartment, and you liked it, but the owner of the building was not prone to making improvements.

Anakin’s skeptical glare again, followed by, “Renovations?”

“Renovations,” you confirmed simply.

He looked angry; in fact, he looked _very_ angry— which only made you feel better about the decision you’d just made to lie to him. For a moment you didn’t know what he was going to do, but then he resumed putting on his shirt. You were glad not to have to see his fresh bruises anymore; kicking him had not been fun for you.

“Fine,” he said. After retrieving and replacing both his wallet and shoes, he leered resentfully at you one more time, and left.

The first thing you did once he’d exited the room was get up to lock the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t know this was going to be more than one part until approximately 5 minutes after posting chapter one. I have been writing it pretty compulsively since, but I know I need to take a break and be a human for a little bit soon.
> 
> Thank you so, _so_ much if you’ve read this far.
> 
> Also, I’m sorry!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry in advance.

Waking was very sudden, but the scent enveloping your nose was familiar. You were in your own bed. There was a hand over your mouth, which was warm, and breath in your ear, which seemed even warmer. You both heard and felt the distinct crinkle of a jacket; a windbreaker. You had no idea what was happening— part of you wasn’t even sure you were conscious. Your heart began to race, and you struggled to breathe through your nose, because the hand was partially covering that, too. 

You began to try to get up, but just as you started to move your leg, you found it pinned— by another, stronger leg. You blinked your eyes a few times; tried to will your vision to adjust in the dark. When it finally did, your panic became infused with dread.

 _”Shut up. Shut the fuck up.”_

It wasn’t as though you had a choice.

You tried to say his name through his palm, but you couldn’t.

“I’m going to take my hand away,” he whispered. “ _Do not scream._ ”

Tentatively, he released you.

You whispered back at him, then, “What the fuck, Anakin?”

He was standing beside your bed, with one of his legs planted on the floor. He was using the other to hold you tightly to the mattress. After removing his hand from your mouth, he gripped your shoulder with it firmly. You hadn’t noticed whether he was wearing his artificial arm, but you didn’t figure that mattered very much.

“If I let you up,” he asked, “will you listen?” He spoke slowly, and deliberately.

“I sort of have to, don’t I?”

He looked at you— his skeptical glare— and after a few moments, he stood to allow you to rise.

“Pack your things,” he said, once you were standing.

“What?”

“This is your fucking fault.”

_”What?”_

“Pack your fucking things!”

You began to dress. “What is this about?”

“This is your fault,” he repeated. “You’re coming with me.”

As you turned away from him and bent down to retrieve a shirt, you began, “I’m not going any—”

However, you heard him take a heavy step, and felt something sharp jab into your back as you stood. You froze initially, but then you ventured to turn around— very slowly— to find that Anakin had pulled a mid-sized hunting knife out from somewhere on his person, and was now brandishing it at you.

“Anakin, what—”

He pushed the tip of the blade up against the skin on your abdomen, now that you were facing him. He let it rest just below your bellybutton. “Pack. Your. Things.”

You took a deep breath. You looked first at his face, and then down at his knife. 

You nodded.

He lowered the blade, and allowed you to finish dressing. After that, you grabbed your biggest backpack from out of your closet and filled it with whatever you could think of that you might need— even though you didn’t know where you were going, or for how long.

Anakin had been between you and the table on which you’d left your phone since he’d let you up. When you moved to grab it, he pointed his knife at you again and shook his head.

You left it where it was.

When it came time for you to put on shoes, Anakin said, “The boots.”

“What?”

“The boots I got you— wear those.”

“Oh. Okay,” you said. You put them on.

He took a deep breath of his own; slid his knife away somewhere beneath the jacket he was wearing. “Hold my hand,” he ordered.

You wrinkled your nose at him. “Why?”

“I’m not letting you run,” he said.

You grabbed his hand— his real one. You weren’t used to touching his hand.

“Open the door,” he told you. “And don’t be fucking stupid.”

You opened the door; stepped out into the empty hallway with Anakin. You were wearing your backpack. He gripped your hand so tightly that it hurt, but you didn’t say anything about that— you’d expected it.

By the time you were out in the parking lot, you’d already both considered and dismissed the thought of trying to fight him. His one arm was almost certainly stronger than your two— and your familiarity with the composition of the rest of his body only strengthened your hesitance. His mind was a whole other matter; you weren’t about to test it by screaming or shouting: For all you knew, he’d kill you before anyone would have time to react.

You stopped with him outside of his car, where he’d led you to the driver’s side door. 

“Get in,” he ordered. “Climb over the console, and into the passenger’s seat. Don’t bother trying to get out.” You opened the door for him because you knew his good hand was occupied restraining you, and did as you were told. He got in after you; slammed the door shut once he’d released you from his grip.

He locked the doors— although you predicted yours was already somehow jammed— and stared out the front windshield for a moment, just breathing. After looking around the parking lot as best he could from inside the vehicle, he retrieved a set of keys from his pocket and reached around awkwardly with his left hand to shove them into the ignition and start the car.

He drove away from your building a bit too fast, but unfortunately not fast enough to draw any special kind of attention from anyone who might have been watching. He took the most efficient route through your neighbourhood, and out onto the highway.

He didn’t speak, and he didn’t stop. 

You simply sat and stared at him. Your heart was still racing and your stomach felt like a brick of ice. He looked, somehow, both very much like himself and completely unfamiliar at the same time. His eyes were wide and focused sharply on the road, his jaw was clenched, and he was sitting up as straight as a rod. His good hand was clenched tightly around the steering wheel, while his other one rested on his leg. It was always concealed by a black glove, and tonight was no different. He gave off an energy that was both panicked and angry; he seemed almost like a bomb about to go off.

You should never have let him sleep in your goddamn room.

Very carefully, “...Anakin...?”

“What?” He didn’t look at you.

You realized you didn’t have anything to say. You scanned your brain for something; decided on, “How did you get in?”

You swore you saw him smirk. “Easily,” he said.

“Oh.”

More silence.

“This is your fault,” he reminded you.

“I don’t understand,” you said. You truly didn’t. 

“Just shut up for a while, okay?”

“...Okay.”

‘A while’ ended up feeling like a very long time. Your heart calmed itself a bit, but your dread stayed with you. Anakin kept driving along a mostly-empty highway; as he did, you watched buildings and houses become fewer and farther between. He didn’t make any turns— just continued going straight, until the terrain became both completely rural, and totally unfamiliar to you. 

You looked around his car a bit; noticed two seats for children in the back, but they were empty. They didn’t make cars with ashtrays anymore, so Anakin had been using a coin holder in the centre console for that purpose— the plastic on the bottom of it was warped from having been melted and burnt.

Nothing else about the interior stood out to you. It occurred to you briefly to give your door a try in spite of his instruction, but even if he had been lying (you didn’t really think he was) this would have been an abysmal place to jump out.

There weren’t even any lights along the road, by now.

You were afraid to speak, so you stared at Anakin. He seemed to understand, although he maintained his gaze out the windshield.

He asked you, “What?” 

“...Where are we going?”

“Nowhere,” he said.

Oh. “...Well...”

_”What?”_

He seemed frustrated, but you asked anyway, “Why?”

“Why what?” 

“Why _this_? What’s going on?”

He sighed heavily, as though he were annoyed with you. Then, he pulled over to the side of the road. Finally, he did look at you. You couldn’t read his expression, but his eyes were wild. In any other circumstance you’d have found them enrapturing, but right now they only scared you. You waited for him to say something.

Finally: “I was right.”

Carefully, you asked him, “Right about what?”

He stared at you for a few drawn-out moments, and suddenly you _could_ read him: He was making the face he typically made when he was about to start crying.

“It was me,” he said.

“What was you?”

His voice began to break as he whispered, “I killed her.”

“...Dreams aren’t real, Anakin.”

He continued staring at you. Even more quietly this time, _”I killed her.”_

Your eyes widened and your heart started to race again. “...Dreams aren’t real, Anakin,” you repeated, although you said it with far less certainty now than you had any time before.

He did start to cry, then, and when he did you began to feel sick.

You didn’t know what to do, you so just sat and watched him. Eventually, he wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket. He looked back up at you, although you wished he would look out the window instead.

You tried very hard to keep your breathing steady.

“Anakin,” you whispered after what felt like far too much silence. _”What happened?”_

He shook his head at you, and contorted his body to start the car again. Then, he resumed driving.

You had never wanted to be anywhere less than you wanted to be here right now, but there was simply nowhere for you to go. Your eyes darted around the interior of the car again, and you didn’t notice you’d started to tremble until you heard it in your voice as you asked him, “What about your kids, Anakin?”

“What?”

You felt angry, if only for a split second— but, it emboldened you. “Your kids, you sick fuck! What did you do with your kids?”

He continued to drive, but he leered at you from out the corner of his eye. “They’re fine,” he said.

“Really?” You didn’t know what to believe from him, at this point. 

“They’re with the only person in the world I still trust,” he told you, which was more of an answer than you had expected. To your surprise, he even added, “And when he finds out why he has them, he’s going to want me dead.”

Before you could stop yourself, “Can you blame him?”

Anakin was trembling, too. He sighed, and said, “No— no, I can’t.”

“Why did you—”

“Shut up.”

“...Okay.”

There was another stretch of silence, then; it seemed even longer than the first. When Anakin finally spoke once more, he asked you to look in the glove compartment for extra cigarettes, so you did. He instructed you to take one out, light it as though you were going to smoke it yourself, and then place it in his mouth.

You did, albeit very tentatively, and with shaking hands.

“Thanks,” he said.

“No problem,” you answered. It was true: Lighting cigarettes for him seemed to be the least of your troubles, right now.

You decided to try asking again, “Where are we going?” You could only tell that you were headed east, now, because you could see the sun beginning to emerge from below the horizon directly ahead of you. You realized that you’d had no idea what time it was when he had abducted you. You wondered if he was planning on sleeping at any point.

This time he admitted to you, “I don’t know where we’re going.”

“Don’t you think you should stop soon?”

He sighed. “Yes,” and pulled the car over again, much as he had before. This time, though, he pulled it into what looked like a legitimate rest area which had been built along the side of the road. Among seemingly endless swaths of tall grass dotted by short shrubs, there was a worn-looking gazebo with an equally weathered picnic table underneath it. Anakin parked in a tiny lot beside the structure; put his cigarette out in his makeshift ashtray.

You sat in silence with him. It was much the same as when you had been driving, except now you were motionless. You looked at his face— it hadn’t changed a lot since he’d taken you in the first place, but now he looked considerably more tired.

“What are you going to do?” You couldn’t think of anything else to say or ask.

“Sit here a minute. Then keep driving.”

“You’re going to run out of gas eventually,” you pointed out. You were barely thinking, between your anxiety and your own exhaustion— it was tiring to be this scared of someone.

“I know,” he said. “We’ll get more.”

You didn’t like the way he phrased that. “I’m not—”

He turned to look at you. More angrily than you had expected, he snarled, _”Yes you are._ ” Then, “This is as much your fault as it is mine, and I’m not going to let you fuck off on me.” He sat back in his seat; looked up at the ceiling. Finally, in a more even tone, “Light me another cigarette, alright?”

“Alright,” you said, and you did.

Once he had settled into smoking it, he told you, “I need you to do something before we can keep going.”

You were nervous about what ‘something’ might be, but you were feeling justifiably terrified of nearly everything, by this point. Quietly, you asked, “What is it?”

As a plume of smoke obscured his face briefly, “I’m a piece of shit,” he said.

“What?” You couldn’t disagree with him right now, exactly, but you didn’t quite understand.

“Do you have your belt?” He put out his cigarette.

“My...?” Oh. “...Yeah, actually. I do.” It was in your backpack, which had been sitting between your legs on the floor of the car. You didn’t know why the fuck you’d grabbed that stupid belt on your way out, but you supposed you were glad you had, now.

“Well,” he said, “then you know what I need you to do.”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll...?”

He laughed, which you still weren’t used to hearing, and gazed over at you. With a ghost of a smile, “Do you think I’ve ever _not_ been in control of what you do to me?”

You thought about it; realized that the sheer strength of his body had always given him an advantage over you— and that he’d only ever been _letting_ you beat him up, no matter how broken or damaged he had seemed.

Any semblance of control you’d ever had over him, it dawned on you, had dissipated the second he’d led you out of your room. He was no longer in your domain; you were in his— and there was absolutely nothing you could do about it.

“O-okay,” you conceded. “How do you want to...?” You’d never done this with him in a car before.

He reached down with his left hand; pulled a lever which shifted his seat back. “Take it out, and sit here,” he said, as he motioned to his lap.

You gave him a strange look, but he ignored it, and you obeyed— soon, you were straddling his knees; leather strap in hand. You ignored the steering wheel pressing into your back. You tried to decode his expression as you looped the belt around his neck, but you couldn’t; not right this second. As you began to pull, you looked down briefly, and noticed that his cock was stiff this time.

Of all the times for him to get a hard-on, why right now? _How_ right now?

The tight space in the car necessitated that you be very close to him. Out of habit— perhaps, too, as an emotional defence mechanism— you fell into a very familiar role. You asked into his ear as you choked him, “How the fuck are you horny, Anakin?”

 _”You know how,”_ he wheezed.

“Because you’re fucking disgusting,” you told him, and you yanked the belt harshly before reaching down with your other hand to feel his erection. He grunted, and you let the strap fall loose.

He breathed heavily a moment, but then he especially surprised you: He reached down between the two of you with his own hand, and pulled open his belt. You reached down yourself to do the rest of the work on his pants; it was infinitely easier with two hands— and you had, for now, ceased to think of anything beyond the raw mechanics of this particular act, anyway.

For the moment at least, all you were was a body: A system performing a task.

Once he was free, you took his cock in one hand and your belt in the other. You began to stroke him languidly as you pulled his airway shut. As he struggled, you insulted him: “You’re worse than I ever could have fucking imagined,” and you increased your hand’s pace; squeezed him tightly. 

He seemed to want to say something, but you didn’t stop— choking him, or pumping his dick. He began to thrust his hips; when he did, you expected him to raise his good hand to pull on the belt. Instead, however, he reached up under your shirt with it and raked his nails sharply down your back.

He’d never, ever done anything like that to you before.

You yelled in surprise; dropped the belt— then, you lost your balance and fell into him. As he gasped and you crashed into his chest, you felt him burst in your hand; sticky tendrils of his utterly nonsensical pleasure coated your palm and dripped out over your knuckles.

He rested his hand on the small of your back; you leaned into his chest because there was nowhere else to go. You both breathed hard, but it took him a lot longer to calm down. 

You felt more trapped, now, than you had when he’d pinned you to your bed.


	5. Chapter 5

“You alright, honey? You look awfully pale.”

The concern of the receptionist at the motel’s front desk was genuine. Anakin’s was not, but he was incredibly convincing as he turned to you, touched your face with his hand, and said softly as he looked straight into your eyes, “Sweetheart, she’s right. You look like you need to lie down for a while.” He kissed your forehead before turning back to the woman at the desk and saying, “My wife hasn’t been feeling well; she needs to rest— is there a room available?”

He sounded very much like somebody you might actually have wanted to be there with, as he said and did those things— however, you knew the truth, and it still made you feel as if you were about to throw up.

It also kept you silent, because aside from sick, you also felt terrified.

There had, of course, been a room available. Anakin had paid for it in cash; paid enough that the two of you could remain in it until the next morning. You had no idea what name or identification he’d ended up using to obtain it, if any; your mind was racing. It was almost noon, now, and you’d just come off the road after having driven for several hours. Your surroundings were still largely rural, and you still weren’t at all familiar with where you were.

Anakin had put his arm around your shoulder to guide you out of the lobby; you’d noticed the receptionist smiling warmly at his act. 

When you entered the room, however, you peeled yourself away from him as quickly as you possibly could and sat down on the bed; rested your head in your hands. You heard Anakin step heavily over to the nightstand. You also heard him fiddling with something, and so you looked up to see that he’d withdrawn his hunting knife from the inner pocket of his jacket and had used it to cut the cord leading from the telephone to the wall.

You were exhausted— all you could do was sigh and shake your head.

He walked into the bathroom after that; when he came out, he had shed his windbreaker and was in the process of unbuttoning his shirt. You hadn’t meant to, but you must have shot him a glare.

“I have to take my arm off for a bit, alright? That’s all.” He sounded almost calm.

“Oh. Alright.” His explanation hadn’t been unjustified— you were, in fact, very much afraid of him wanting sex right now. That, or any one of the ‘punishments’ he liked for you to impose on him. You simply couldn’t get yourself into that state of mind: What had happened in the car at the rest stop, you thought, had been more than enough for a while. You were sick of touching him.

“Thank you,” he said.

Incredulously, you asked him, “What for?”

As he unsheathed what was left of his right arm and set its replacement down on a table, “For not being stupid in the lobby.” Then, he stretched. Usually, you liked to watch him stretch.

Now, you just sighed again.

Once free of both his shirt and false arm, Anakin took out a cigarette; lit it. You thought about going through your bag, but there wasn’t anything in there that could help you, so you stayed seated. After staring at the floor a few moments, you looked up at him— smoking, pacing. 

You let him do it for a bit before asking, “What are you going to do?”

He barely seemed to have heard you. “What?”

_”What are you going to do, Anakin?”_

He stopped, looked at you, and then shouted both suddenly and loudly enough to make you recoil, “I don’t fucking know!”

You felt your hands start to shake; tried very hard to steady them. Then, “Why did you have to bring me?”

He took a long haul off his smoke. “This is your fault— and anyway, I need you.”

“Need me for what?”

“You’re going to help me fix this,” he said as he continued to stare at you. He added yet again, “Remember— _this is your fault.”_

He’d finally said that to you enough times to make you feel upset. 

“How the fuck is it my fault, Anakin?” You thought you might cry a bit, now, yourself: You knew for a fact that you were not responsible Anakin’s having murdered his wife, and it angered you for him to imply that you were.

He got down on his knee, this time, to look at you— just like you normally would have done to spit in his face and pull his hair. He didn’t do either of those things, however— he just stared, and told you directly, “If you had been willing to do your job, she would still be alive, and you would be at home right now. Do you understand?”

You recalled the evening he’d made you want to put some distance between the two of you; thought about when you had lied about the renovations. That had been the last time you saw him, before this.

How could you possibly have known? Even if you had known, how was his lack of control in any way your fault? You were quite sure that it wasn’t.

You didn’t mean to, but you did replace your head in your hands and begin to cry, then. You heard Anakin stand up, and sigh. “I know,” he said as he slowly rose to his feet again. “It feels like shit, doesn’t it?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Shh. It’s okay,” he said. He sounded calm; reasonable— almost soothing, suddenly. “It’s okay, because you’re here now. Right?”

You nodded.

“Then you can help me.”

That was complete bullshit, but you nodded again and glanced up at him.

He smiled, which you didn’t like, and said, “See?” And then he took his attention off of you; directed it at his phone, which he pulled out of his pocket as he held his smoke between his lips. You’d have loved to have your phone— you could picture it, sitting on your table at home. You could also picture home itself; you wanted to go there right now more than anything.

After a moment of scrolling he told you, “We still have some time.”

You sniffled; wiped your eyes. “What?”

“The person I left my kids with— we’ll know we’re fucked when he starts blowing up my phone. He hasn’t yet.”

“You mean...?”

He narrowed his gaze, but he narrowed it down at the floor. “No one knows yet.”

The sick feeling in your stomach bubbled back up again at the thought of his wife lying dead in their house, or anywhere else. You wanted to know how he’d done it, but you didn’t ask— anyway, you thought you could maybe guess, given his affinity for your belt.

You glanced at the disabled telephone on the nightstand; he noticed that.

“Don’t fucking think about it,” he said. Suddenly, he didn’t sound so calm anymore.

“I’m not!” That was a lie, but it didn’t matter whether you told him the truth anyhow.

“Good,” he spat, and he walked back into the bathroom. When he came out, he’d both discarded his cigarette and put his phone away, but was now holding a different object in his hand. At first you thought it was his knife, but a closer examination told you that it was a set of handcuffs instead.

“Anakin, no...”

“Do you have to use the bathroom first?”

“I really don’t want—”

He stepped toward you and leaned down to look at your face. You didn’t want to peer into his eyes, but you did. For all their pale-blue beauty, all you saw in them now was rage and anxiety— an apparently dangerous combination, in Anakin.

Slowly and deliberately, as when he’d ordered you to obey him in your room, he asked you, “Do you think I’m fucking stupid?”

“No,” you said— and that was true; he was not stupid, just crazy. “I just—”

He interrupted, “If you need the bathroom, use it now. I’ll be right outside the door.”

You didn’t have anything else to say.

You did use the bathroom; found you had no idea where he might have put his coat, or his knife— you looked, but couldn’t see them. You heard him beginning to get impatient after you turned off the water in the sink, however, so you didn’t take any more time than you needed to.

When you emerged, he asked you, “Is that it?”

You nodded. He walked over to you, and used his hand to slap a hard cuff onto your wrist. You stared at it.

“I’m sorry,” he said gently. “I know you understand.”

“I don’t really understand at all, Anakin,” you answered— and by that you meant this whole ridiculous game he seemed to be playing.

He sighed, and tugged on the other cuff to lead you. He brought you to a big, old iron radiator installed on the far wall... which was nowhere near the bed.

At least it wasn’t hot.

“There,” he said, as he attached the free cuff to one of the big, vertical, metal slats. “Now we can both get some sleep.”

You were the one who laughed this time, because you couldn’t imagine sleeping on a floor chained to a radiator. You were about to, though, and Anakin chose not to respond to you as he turned and walked over to the bed. He laid down on it facing away from you, and you could only assume he closed his eyes.

You closed yours, too, in spite of yourself. You didn’t honestly know how long you’d been up, now— you knew it couldn’t have been as long as it felt. You were tired, though, and the urge to sleep overtook you, then. Neither the hardness of the floor nor the awkward angle of your wrist bound to the heating unit could have stopped it. You hoped very much that you would not dream.

Hours passed, or at least they must have. When you woke, you found that dusk had fallen and the room was much darker than it’d been when Anakin had chained you up in the afternoon. You heard him before you saw him— when he knew you were awake, he rose from the floor beside the bed; alert, sweaty, and obviously very warm: Likely, he’d been doing something to maintain the integrity of those muscles you found yourself liking less and less the longer he held you captive.

Whatever he’d been doing, he abandoned it to step over to you. He was still wearing only his pants— no right forearm; no shirt to speak of. Both of these factors somehow made him seem even more intimidating than he did when he was fully dressed.

“You’re awake,” he observed.

“So are you,” you said back to him.

You were both quiet for a few moments after that. You stared at one another. Finally, he asked you without a hint of irony, “Do you feel better, now?”

“No,” you said. “Not really.”

A flash of genuine disappointment crossed his eyes. Then, his face hardened again, and he asked, “Do you need the bathroom?”

“I’d like a shower,” you admitted. You felt absolutely filthy, although you doubted if hot water and soap would really help with it.

He eyed you suspiciously, but proceeded to pull the key to the handcuffs out of his pocket. He bent down, and released you. After putting the key away, he held out his hand to help you up, but you didn’t take it. 

You walked past him and over to the bathroom. You closed the door behind you without latching it (what would have been the point?) and began to undress. It hadn’t been all that long, but you felt as if you’d been wearing these clothes forever. You fingered a bit of Anakin’s dried-up shame from the car on the hem of your sleeve; scowled at it. What made him think he deserved to get off after doing what he’d done? Maybe it really did hurt his feelings to do those things with you, but if it did, you certainly thought it was a funny way for a man to try to cause himself pain.

With that thought, the door swung open— not hard, but hard enough that the knob bumped the wall. Anakin was standing in the frame, staring at you. 

He’d never actually seen you fully naked in the light before— that wasn’t the kind of sex you tended to have with him.

You crossed your arms to cover your breasts. “What do you want?”

The toilet was closer to the door than the shower, and the lid was shut, so he sat down on it. He had already lit a cigarette. He didn’t answer you.

“There’s nowhere for me to run in here,” you pointed out.

“I know,” he said. He took a drag of his smoke; blew some of it out in your direction, and continued, “I just want to keep an eye on you.”

You wondered where he’d stashed his jacket; his knife. You wondered what other tools he had hidden in his clothes or his car to keep you subdued. “Okay,” you said reluctantly, and you uncrossed your arms slowly. His expression did not change as you revealed yourself, so tentatively, you turned around to begin running the water in the bathtub.

You hated bending over in front of him, but it didn’t matter what you hated right now, so you just went ahead and did it. You adjusted the temperature to your liking (if you couldn’t have anything else, you were at least going to have a decent shower), pulled the plunger on the tap to reroute the water through the hose, and stood to step inside.

You heard Anakin make a noise, so you turned around and asked, “What?”

“Nothing,” he said. Then, as though he simply couldn’t help himself, “Tell me if it stings, okay?”

“Tell you if what stings?”

That brief, phantom smirk again; then, “Where I caught you with my fingernails— tell me if that hurts, when you get under the water.” 

As you gave him a quizzical look, “...Sure,” and you turned around to step under the stream. You pulled the curtain closed, of course, but you still felt like Anakin could see you. You expected him to pull it open or otherwise bother you, but he didn’t; not while you were washing. You called out to him that you didn’t feel a thing on your back, which was a bit of a lie, but he didn’t even answer that.

When you stepped out, however, he had discarded his cigarette and was standing in front of you, holding a towel out with his hand.

“Here,” he said.

“Thanks,” you answered. You took the towel, and wrapped it around your body the same way you would have any other day; after any other shower. Today, though, that was where the normalcy ended as you looked up at Anakin’s face. You tried to read it.

His expression was unclear to you, but his hand seemed to be feeling communicative. He reached up with it, and inexplicably touched the side of your face. He was as gentle as anything, after that, as he began to lean in for what you could only guess was going to be a kiss. You’d never kissed him before.

You did not want a kiss from Anakin.

“Fuck off,” you said, and you pulled your head back from his hand; slinked past him, and went back out to the other part of the room. You didn’t know why or how you felt quite so bold, but the idea of any kind of tenderness from the man who had just killed his wife and abducted you made your stomach churn.

If you’d looked back, you might have noticed him seeming hurt— but you didn’t. He took a minute, but by the time he had followed you to where you were rummaging through your backpack for fresh clothes, he had returned to simply being angry.

“Hey,” he started combatively. “I’m trying to be fucking nice to you.”

You didn’t answer that, because it was stupid, and you felt you had no hope of explaining to him why you thought so.

 _”Hey,”_ he repeated a bit more forcefully, which you still didn’t respond to.

You maybe should have, because he paced over to you and used his hand, then, to grasp a fistful of your hair. You were thinking just quickly enough not to yell about it. You’d been bent over your bag and facing away from him, so he wrenched you up into a standing position. As he held you tightly, he growled into your ear from behind, “Don’t fucking ignore me.”

You felt like crying, and you also felt like taking a swing at Anakin.

You didn’t do either.

Instead, you said in a whisper, “Stop— _please._ ”

He let go of your hair, so you turned around. You still only had your towel.

“Lie down on the bed,” he said.

“...What?”

“I told you to lie down.” When you remained frozen, he added, “Please.”

“Anakin...” You only knew how to start; not what to say next. Besides not wanting to fuck him anymore, you’d also never, _ever_ been the one laying down during sex with him.

He began, “I could go and get the knife, but—”

You interrupted him immediately by obeying him, although you left your towel on. You clutched it to your chest as you laid down on your back and looked up at the ceiling. You asked him, “What do you want?”

“I want you to trust me,” he said.

You stifled a laugh, and then resumed your blank, upward stare.

“I mean it,” he insisted, but he still sounded irritated.

Without looking at him, you shook your head. “I can’t,” you said. It was both plain and honest.

You got the distinct impression that he was trying very hard not to yell at you. “Could you please just try?” He made a noise indicating his frustration; continued, “This will be a lot easier if you do.”

You really didn’t care about making things easier for him, and you knew you couldn’t trust him. However, since you were stuck with him... well, maybe he had a point, however utterly misguided.

“What do you want me to do, then?”

He took a minute to answer, which made you believe he didn’t actually know. Eventually, though, “Just... take off your towel, okay?”

You unwrapped yourself so that you were laying on it, but it was no longer covering any part of you.

“Thank you,” he said, which came out so awkwardly as to be painful, but you didn’t react. “Roll over,” he added, which you thought was very strange— but, you did.

You felt him get onto the bed with you, but he hadn’t taken his pants off. You didn’t know what he was really trying to do, and now you couldn’t see him, either. It made you feel terrified all over again.

Suddenly, you registered him swinging his leg over your body— he was straddling you. He didn’t sit all the way down on your back or legs, though. He seemed to be being very careful not to put his weight on you, in fact. Still, you tensed, and you could tell you’d begun to shiver.

Anakin leaned down to whisper into your ear, “Relax, alright?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, and nodded.

He placed his hand on your back. It was very warm, but if you could have recoiled, you would have. 

You waited for him to pull your hair again— or choke you, or even hit you in the back of the head. You had no idea, really, what to expect from him... which was likely why the sensation of that big, strong hand of his beginning to gently (yet adeptly, you had to admit) massage your shoulder caught you completely off-guard.

“...Anakin...?”

“Shh. You looked like you needed this— and it’s best to do it after a shower.”

“I—”

_”Shhh.”_

You sighed, and let your head sink into the bed as you reluctantly tolerated the only remotely pleasurable thing you’d experienced since the beginning of this entire, disgusting catastrophe.

Anakin was in charge, now, and there was nothing else for you to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for putting up with this. 💕


	6. Chapter 6

“Here,” said Anakin as he handed you the remote to the television. “I’ll be right back. I’m sorry, okay?”

You nodded, but you didn’t say anything. It was early morning, now. Anakin was fully dressed— arm included— and had just attached you to the radiator by his handcuffs again. You guessed the TV was supposed to placate you until he returned from wherever he had to go. You didn’t know why he was leaving the room, and you were unhappy about sitting on the floor, but you were glad to have the opportunity to check the news.

He looked over his shoulder at you as he left, and you stared back at him. He closed the door slowly; locked it. Once you heard the click, you pushed the power button on the remote and began changing channels. You were far enough from home by now that the local news station was unfamiliar.

As you waited for the weather broadcast to end so that they could get to the national news (perhaps you would see your own picture— or his), you reflected on your time with Anakin since waking.

It had been disconcerting, to say the least.

You hated that you’d felt marginally better after that massage of his you hadn’t asked for, but the fact was that you had. He’d let you dress immediately after; then, you had sat on the bed for a long time and stared at one another on-and-off while he smoked. That had been worse than the massage: To your great shame, in the dim light and empty silence of the room, it had been nearly too easy to forget your circumstances, and lose yourself in Anakin’s face.

No matter what he did or how you felt about him, neither of you could will away his attractiveness— and in the absence of any other distractions, it was a relatively easy and comfortable thing to focus on. In fact, focusing on it was something in which you’d taken great pleasure, up until very recently. This was part of why you were grateful to him for having given you control of the television, at least for a few minutes. Even if only in your mind, it was a method of getting away from him for a little bit— and you needed to get away from him.

The national news did come on, but there was nothing on it relevant to you; not right now. You’d hoped someone might have noticed you gone, but between your profession and the fact that you lived alone, you feared it might take a little while before anyone got worried enough about you to call the police.

What could Anakin do to you in that time?

You didn’t especially want to find out.

You heard the lock on the door to the room click again; hoped it was a maid, but of course, it was him. He was holding a large bag of his own— presumably retrieved from his car— in his left hand. He set it down on the bed, and wasted no time in unlocking your wrist.

He held his hand out to help you up once more, and again you ignored it.

You looked at him as if to ask what was happening. He smiled at you, which you still found very unsettling, and said, “I have something for you.”

 _Fuck please no._ “...What is it?”

He walked back over to the bag he’d placed on the bed, opened it, and pulled out a dress. You looked at it; felt confused.

With a deeply uncharacteristic hint of hope in his voice, Anakin asked, “Do you like it?”

“I— uh— it’s... nice.” It was not something you’d normally have chosen, perhaps, but it was pretty, and it was at least correct for the season.

“Well, try it on, then.”

“Um... well, alright.” You already had extra clothes. Perhaps he hadn’t realized...?

There was no point in hiding yourself from him now, so you stripped to your underwear and he handed you the garment he’d presented. You slid it on over your head; your hips, and then smoothed it with your hands as you looked down at your body.

It fit well enough, for the most part; again, you likely wouldn’t have chosen it— but it was both attractive and functional.

It was in the midst of this thought that you noticed Anakin’s staring. He seemed to have gone to one of his far-away places; some place like that one he’d once paid you to choke and slap him back from. You weren’t going to do that now, so you said his name instead.

He stepped toward you in response; reached out with his hand to touch the material near the dress’ collar. You tensed at this, but he didn’t seem to notice. 

With a smile you’d have called peaceful on anyone in the world but him, Anakin said quietly, “This will do just fine.”

That’s when it finally dawned on you who this dress actually belonged to, and you suddenly felt like your skin was crawling. You didn’t know what to say or do— you hated the idea of wearing it, but were also, now, particularly frightened of rejecting it. You didn’t say anything.

He finally looked at your face; appeared to snap out of his trance, at least partially. In that strange, hopeful intonation you wished he wouldn’t use, he asked you again, “Do you really like it?”

You certainly weren’t about to say ‘no’ now. “....Yes, I like it,” you told him. You thought carefully; added, “Thank you,” as you tried not to shudder.

He seemed relieved at your answer, which you also did not like, because it appeared to cause him to want to touch your face again. He must have noticed the wince you repressed at the gentle glance of his hand, because he withdrew it quickly, and turned away. You expected anger when he faced you again, but he didn’t display any— not this time.

He looked a bit sad, maybe, but you really didn’t care if he was sad, so long as he didn’t get worked-up.

Anakin seemed to have successfully shaken off his disappointment at your rejection of his touch as he pulled out his phone. As he scrolled, he said, “We’re staying one more night— and we’re getting a different car.” He added, “You’re coming to buy it with me.”

You sighed, because you didn’t want to go out and buy a sketchy car with Anakin, especially not if he was going to use his wife’s old clothes to play with you like a dress-up doll beforehand. Again, though, it didn’t matter what you wanted— so, you agreed to accompany him.

On the way out of the the motel room, he held out his left hand, which you didn’t refuse because you knew he wouldn’t let you. He gripped you very tightly as he looked up and down the hallway, and had you lock the door. Then, you walked out into the lobby together.

The same woman who had checked you in the previous day was sitting at the front desk; she smiled at you. Out of politeness, you smiled back. 

“I’m glad to see you’re feeling better, honey,” she said as you approached her workspace with Anakin. You paused to thank her for her display of interest in your wellbeing, but before you could speak, she added, “It seems like your husband takes good care of you.”

Hearing that made you feel sick all over again, especially given your new attire— however, Anakin put on an incredibly realistic facsimile of a caring smile, and leaned down to retrieve the kiss you’d refused him after your shower. It wasn’t deep or intimate, but it was still strange and upsetting to you. You begrudgingly allowed him to have it anyway.

When he was finished with that, he said to the receptionist with a very sweet grin, “I try my best— she’s always so good to me; it’s the least I can do.” Then, he looked back down at you. “I love you, sweetheart,” he said.

You wanted to kill him more than ever now, of course, but instead you looked up at him and answered with hastily-manufactured affection, “I love you, too.”

He reached up with his hand— the one he couldn’t use to restrain you, because it wasn’t really attached to him— and took for himself that gentle caress of your face you had also denied him before. That was especially infuriating, but you were struck, briefly, by the way he was able to make his thumb move across your cheek.

After leaving the receptionist with a pair of cheerful smiles, you exited the hotel with Anakin to go out into the world for the first time since he’d taken you. You looked up at his face as you walked to find that his expression had changed: He’d focused his eyes ahead of himself, now, in a determined glare. His grip on your hand was tighter than you’d known it could be.

Traveling outside with him was not an enjoyable endeavour. He did everything he could not to have to take his left hand off of you, and his false chivalry was grating. Thankfully, you didn’t have to go far— the man selling the car had agreed to meet the two of you just down the street with it, in the parking lot of a coffee shop. You figured Anakin must have found it online— maybe while you’d been sleeping.

The transaction was exactly as sketchy as you thought it would be, but it didn’t take as long as you’d have expected. You were grateful for that, because as Anakin had spoken to the seller and exchanged cash for keys, you’d wanted to run more than you had any other time since your abduction: After all, he’d had to let go of you to retrieve his wallet.

You were frightened to run, though— perhaps even more frightened than you were of not running, because as Anakin had let go of your hand, he’d shot you a look indicating that he would not make things easy for you if you tried to escape... public space or not. He was wearing that windbreaker; the one you knew had his knife inside of it. Just how crazy was he?

It was very hard to tell, and that’s why you stood silently beside him until the man who’d sold him his ‘new’ car walked out of view.

As soon as he had, Anakin freed up his left hand and used it to grasp your wrist. He seemed ill at ease, and he didn’t look at you, but he did thank you. You knew why.

“Alright,” he said next. “Now we have to get this thing to the hotel, and get rid of the other one.” 

“What do you mean get rid of it?”

“I mean get rid of it,” he said as he stepped toward his new purchase. “Now get in, and don’t be stupid.” He loved to remind you not to be stupid.

You sighed, stopped, and looked around. You thought a moment. “Anakin?”

“What?”

“...Can I get a coffee?”

_”What?”_

You tilted your head in the direction of the coffee shop. “It’s been a couple days. I want a coffee.”

He seemed to consider it; looked down at you. You looked back up at him for what felt like a very long time, although his expression wasn’t one you could decode.

He finally agreed. “Fine,” he said. “But I’m coming in with you.”

“Okay,” you told him. 

And just like that, Anakin bought you a coffee. Fortunately, he did not take any notice of the metal fork you slipped under the collar of his wife’s dress and managed to conceal underneath your bra. It was exceedingly uncomfortable, and you were not sure what you were going to do with it yet, but the object seemed to call out to you from the edge of the counter when Anakin had once again released you to get to his wallet. So, in that brief moment during which he hadn’t been looking, you made the fork your own.

You hoped that taking it would not prove to be an error in judgement.

When you arrived back at the hotel room, he thanked you once more— this time for not having been stupid in the new car. He had decided to wait until nighttime to get rid of the old one, and so for now they sat together in the parking lot. You wondered when Anakin would take the time to jam the passenger’s side door on this one, too. You hated the fact that he’d thought this far ahead— it told you he didn’t intend on giving up.

He seemed relieved to be inside. He sighed heavily, removed both his shirt and his arm, and lit a cigarette. It was still early in the day; you had lots of time. You simply sat on the bed, and watched him. You still had the fork in your bra, and weren’t sure what to do with it, now that it was yours. You thought about it.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” you said.

He had begun to pace by then; seemed absorbed in his own thoughts. He nodded in the direction of the washroom, but didn’t say anything. You went in; closed the door behind you without latching it.

The first thing you did was retrieve your fork. You stood with it in your hand for a moment, but began to panic because you didn’t know where to put it. You could still hear Anakin pacing, but you didn’t know how long it might take before he felt the need to ‘check’ on you. Finally, you noticed a gap between the back of the countertop and the wall. It was small, but not too small for you to jam the fork into it lengthwise after straightening out its prongs— so, that was what you did. 

You examined its placement as you ran the water in the sink for a moment. You felt satisfied; certain it would be invisible to anyone who wasn’t specifically looking for it.

When you came back out, Anakin was still walking back-and-forth across the length of the room; however, he stopped and studied you as you stood near the bathroom door. Right now was another one of those times you couldn’t read him.

He asked you, “How do you feel?”

You hadn’t expected that. “I— um...”

When you couldn’t seem to answer, he tried instead, “How’s your coffee?”

“It’s fine,” you told him, and he seemed relieved at that.

“So,” he ventured, “you’re having a nice morning, then?”

You wouldn’t exactly have called it that, between the creepy dress and the sketchy car, but perhaps this really was Anakin’s idea of a good time— he’d never seemed particularly in touch with reality, now that you thought about it.

You still didn’t know how to answer his question. 

You started, “Well...”

His face fell; that hadn’t been even close to the correct response, you realized. He looked sad all of a sudden, and you hoped he’d stay that way. However, as it had begun to do more and more often recently, his disappointment morphed quickly to anger.

“What the fuck do I have to do to make you happy, then?” 

_What?_ That question was irrational given the circumstance, but you weren’t going to point it out. You also weren’t going to answer, ‘take me home,’ so instead you stood in silence— forgetting that Anakin, apparently, was very sensitive to being ignored.

He stepped more closely; growled through his teeth, _”Answer me!”_

You flinched; he snarled. You were so much more used to broken melancholy from him than raging ire that the latter still took you very much off-guard. You tried to start to say something, but all you seemed to be able to manage was to stutter.

“Fuck!” He threw the cigarette he’d been smoking to the floor and reached out to grab your hair. He twisted it his hand, walked you to the bed, and forced you down so that you were sitting on it. You wished you’d kept your fork with you, now.

He wrenched your head back so that you had to look up at him. It wasn’t just his face that seemed angry; the rest of him did, too— he was tense again, and appeared to be fully aware of how intimidating he looked as he loomed over you. You really hadn’t wanted to get him worked-up, but it was clear he’d ended up that way anyhow. 

_”Well?”_ He didn’t loosen his grip; tears began to sting the corners of your eyes.

You tried what had worked before, because you didn’t know what to say to him. Quietly, “Please, Anakin... _stop_.”

He did let go of your hair, but he didn’t look any less angry. You wished you could shrink or disappear into the bed or otherwise render yourself invisible to him, but you couldn’t. 

“Lie down,” he ordered, much as before.

You acquiesced immediately this time; laid on your back. You shivered as he leaned over you. You could feel him running his eyes up and down the length of your body; it felt awful, but it seemed to soften him. His breathing steadied.

“Anakin, I—”

“Quiet,” he said, and he sat down on the bed beside you. You watched him as he did. It was a shame that he was only pretty on the outside, you thought.

You didn’t say anything more, and neither did he— but he did place his hand on you; on your leg. After resting it there a moment, he began to slide it upward, which caused you to become very tense: Anakin had never touched you like this, and you really didn’t want him to.

It didn’t matter whether or not you wanted it, though, so you remained still as he let his fingers travel far too high. They slipped under his wife’s dress; pushed the hem of it up around your thighs, and finally rested on the outside of your underwear. You squirmed, but immediately wished you hadn’t, because it made him smile.

It also made him push gently on your vulva with his fingers— from the outside of the fabric, at first. You hated that you gasped. Why did you fucking gasp?

He asked in a very soft voice, “Do you like that?” He barely sounded like himself all of a sudden.

“I...”

This time he interrupted you by slipping his fingers up underneath your panties. You drew in a sharp breath as he felt up and down your slit with a pair of warm digits. You were as surprised as he was at what he found.

“You’re _so wet,_ ” he observed. He seemed absolutely delighted, all of a sudden. It didn’t suit him.

You felt both embarrassed and somewhat bewildered at your own physiological response to his unwanted attention. You tried to breathe evenly, but it was too difficult. He didn’t remove his fingers, but he did lean down a bit more closely. 

“Were you just afraid to tell me that this is how I make you feel?” He asked this the same way he’d asked if you liked the dress. You thought about your fork again. _Fuck._

You tried to start again, “I think—” But this time, he began to rub circles around your clit. You jumped; thrust your hips upward— it was an involuntary response to a very intense sensation. You made a noise; you couldn’t help it, but it seemed to encourage him. He pressed a bit harder; moved his fingers a little faster. Your breathing changed again; your eyes threatened to close.

He withdrew his hand at that— and licked his fingers. “I wish you would have told me,” he said gently. “I was starting to think you didn’t like being with me.” 

_I don’t like it— I hate it, and I want to go home._ You felt like you were going to start crying. How could he possibly believe that you wanted to be here with him? You wished your body weren’t sending him the wrong message; but really, he’d have to be insane not to understand that you didn’t mean it.

He _was_ insane, though— or, he certainly seemed it.

He stood, and you were certain he was going to remove his own pants. Instead, he surprised you again: He walked to the foot of the bed, smiled, and asked you very sweetly to help him remove your panties. You knew better than to fight about it, of course: As he spoke, your eye caught his jacket on the table behind him, where you knew he was keeping that stupid knife.

Anyway, whatever dexterity he’d lost along with his right arm, you knew he more than made up for with the brute strength of his left— and you didn’t want to test that; not without your fork, anyway.

Once he’d spread your legs with his hand one-by-one, he dropped to his knees on the floor, and proceeded to climb up between your thighs. You were still wearing your boots; you should have kicked him, but he’d rendered you too nervous— and too confused. He slid up the bed on his stomach, moving with surprisingly little awkwardness as he used the remnant of his right arm to push the hem of the dress up further. 

He clamped his good hand down over your hip, and eagerly began to lick and suck at your reluctant wetness.

You gasped again and cried out, but you also started to say, “ _Stop_ , Anakin— I don’t want—“

He lifted his head, then, and cut you off: “Shh— _you love this._ ”

That was exactly what you used to say to him, you realized, when he would come to you with money asking to be choked and beaten. It’s what you would tell him as you would begin to take advantage of the arousal your abuse brought on. You wondered if he’d meant to recall it, but there was no way for you to tell.

You also wondered if this made you just as sick as he was; if, maybe, you didn’t actually deserve everything that had happened to you so far.

It made you wonder if all of this wasn’t really your fault after all, as he’d said— at least partially.

As with the massage, you gave into Anakin’s touch after a while, because you knew you didn’t have the option not to. Although you felt anxious, frightened, guilty, and vaguely sick, you allowed your eyes to close and your hands to grip the sheets as your captor licked you to a satisfying, pulsing climax— your first in days.

You hated that it felt like a relief at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was long, but I’m having more fun writing Ani acting this creepy than I thought. He’ll get better— or worse, idk.
> 
> Thanks for being here. ❤️


	7. Chapter 7

“Harder— _don’t hold out on me._ You know I need this more than ever, now, don’t you?”

You sighed, and hit him harder— just at the base of his ribcage. You did not have your brass knuckles, but Anakin had fashioned you a crude weapon out of a wire coat-hanger from the closet, and helped you wrap it around your hand. He was not in the mood for you to go easy on him, but he still barely moved as your fist impacted the side of his body. Maybe he was too strong; maybe you just didn’t have it in you today.

Maybe, you thought, this was simply not as much fun as it used to be.

He’d let you put your panties back on and lay on the bed for a while while you watched the news, after forcing the attentions of his mouth on you. You had just begun to be able to ignore him when he’d interrupted the weather report to tell you to take off his wife’s dress. You had removed it as instructed; stood before him in just your underwear. After looking you up-and-down with a very sad look on his face, he’d asked you about your brass knuckles, which you hadn’t brought with you.

That was what had led to this. You didn’t especially like the coat-hanger contraption, but that didn’t matter, because Anakin certainly seemed to enjoy it very much. You’d thought about really trying to hurt him with it, but you had already tried to really hurt him before, and knew you couldn’t— not with your fist, anyhow.

You reflected on what he’d told you in the car, on the way here— how he’d only ever been giving you the illusion of control during your encounters; that he’d always been the one orchestrating what you did to him.

As you watched him brace himself to absorb your next blow, you considered that he might not have been bluffing— and it made you feel especially helpless. You could hit him all you wanted; all _he_ wanted: It wouldn’t make a difference, because you could only ever hurt him as much as he decided he wanted to be hurt. He seemed to love to be in control, and in this case, he certainly appeared to have succeeded in that endeavour.

Maybe if you hit him right in the temple, you thought... maybe then, he’d go down. But he wasn’t letting you hit him in the face, or head— not now that you were on the run with him. You thought about whether it would be worth it to try anyway; decided, perhaps, that it was.

In a surge of boldness likely brought on by the adrenaline generated from your beating him, you conjured the thought that you could— maybe— trick him. You raised your fist as though you were going to punch him in the ribs again, but changed the trajectory of your hand at the last moment.

...Of course, the bastard fucking moved.

He fell to his knees, actually— and proceeded to look up at you with that stupid face of his; the one which you knew told you he was about to cry.

You supposed he hadn’t noticed you trying to knock him out, which you also figured made you lucky. You did not have to feign the disdainful glare you shot him as you looked down.

“I know,” he said, unprompted.

“You know what?”

“I know you hate me,” he told you. Through emerging tears, he added, “You _should_ hate me.”

You wanted to bash him in the head, but he was staring at you now, and you were afraid his fresh mournfulness would change quickly to anger again if you tried to take him out. He’d had you remove your boots along with the dress before asking you to hit him, because he was not stupid— so, you didn’t kick him, either. There was nothing else you could do, then, so you spit in his face. You’d always liked spitting in his face.

He started to bawl as soon as you did. He didn’t even try to wipe it off.

He was so fucking pathetic— and yet so goddamn scary— you found, suddenly, that you had to sit down on the bed. He was overwhelming you, both physically and emotionally: The news broadcast, it seemed, had not been enough of an escape from him. You shook Anakin’s makeshift wire weapon from off your hand, looked at the floor, and breathed.

When you allowed your gaze to drift upward, you found that he’d remained on his knees just a few feet away from you; still crying, face still marred by your spit. He began to shuffle over to you.

_Oh fuck, stop._

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed, and when he made it to where you were seated, he placed his arms— both the whole of the left, and what remained of the right— around your waist. You didn’t embrace him; you didn’t even want to touch him. You tensed, but couldn’t recoil, because there was nowhere to go. He let his head rest in your lap as he dug his fingers into your back, and continued with his crying.

“Stop, Anakin,” you said, as neutrally and calmly as you could.

He only pressed his nose into your thigh and kept on.

You sighed, “Anakin...” and finally, after a long moment, he did shift his gaze upward. You remembered why he’d made you sad, now; why you’d let him sleep in your room to begin with. You looked at his face. “....Anakin, if you’re sorry...” You started slowly and carefully; took another breath, and then a chance, “...then why don’t you stop this? _Why don’t you take me home?”_ It was worth a try, you thought.

Something swept through his eyes at that; you figured it was fear, but how could he possibly be scared...? Predictably and quickly, then, the fear did seem to begin to turn to rage— but at that, he squeezed his eyes shut, and buried his face in you again. 

You felt his nails cut sharply into the flesh on your back.

He held onto you; continued to shudder. The strength of his hand’s grip reminded you not to try to start to beat him, and so you didn’t know quite what to do. You waited; didn’t touch him. Finally, his breaths began to come more evenly; he seemed to start to calm down.

He didn’t look up at you; just answered into your leg, _”I can’t.”_

This frustrated you, so against your better judgement, you asked, “Why?”

You had barely expected an answer, but he was shockingly forthcoming: “Because as soon as I destroyed everything,” he said, “I knew you were all I had left.”

 _What?_ How soon after killing his wife had he come to take you? How much of this plan of his had been concocted in the car on the way to this motel? What the _fuck_ was wrong with him?

“Anakin...”

 _”Please!”_ He was begging you, but you didn’t know what for. Shouldn’t this have been the other way around?

“Anakin, I don’t underst—”

“Please!” He looked up at you again, now; intensified his grip around your waist, although you’d already thought he was squeezing as hard as he could. His eyes were wild; reddened by his crying, and still wet with his tears. You didn’t know what he was asking you for, but you were, of course, terrified to refuse him.

Something told you to try a bit differently this time, if you really wanted to know. More gently, “What do you want, Ani?”

He breathed deeply; his jaw trembled, but he didn’t speak.

You sighed. He _was_ sad— sad, and beautiful. You wished he weren’t. “Tell me, Ani,” you said. You hoped you sounded soothing, but you were beginning to just feel defeated.

“I need you,” he whispered.

“‘Need me’?” It sounded ridiculous, because it was.

“Every time I did something that made me hate myself,” he explained, “you were there to help me fix it.”

Of course you were— he’d been paying you. “I was just doing my job,” you said quietly.

“And when you stopped,” he pointed out as if he hadn’t even heard you, “everything fell apart. Now that she’s gone...”

And then he started crying again.

You felt yourself begin to panic; your stomach did a somersault. You started, “No, Anakin...”

“Yes,” he insisted. He still sounded like he was pleading.

“I can’t—”

 _”You have to,”_ with a hint of that rage you’d quickly learned to dread bringing out of him— and another sharp squeeze of his fingernails.

What could you do, really, now? 

With utmost hesitation, you raised one of your hands, and put it on his head; not _in_ his hair, just atop it. The other you placed gingerly around his shoulders; stroked his skin with your thumb. It dawned on you that this must have been what his wife would do for him— after their fights; after he’d come home from being with you feeling guilty. Surely she must not ever have entirely known why?) Perhaps, too, after he’d been violent with her— you could only guess.

Now that he’d killed her, it seemed as if he wanted you to fill both your previous role as the dispenser of his punishments, and her newly-vacated position as his primary source of comfort. 

How the fuck were you supposed to do that?

You didn’t know, and the idea of trying was so terrifyingly overwhelming that you, yourself, began to cry. Without meaning to, you did bury your hand in his hair, then: It was soft and it felt delicate, in stark contrast with the rest of him.

He stood up a bit taller on his knees at that, and loosened his grip on your back. As tentatively as you’d placed your own palm on his shoulder, he released you, and brought his hand up to touch the side of your face instead. You tried to stop crying; it was difficult.

 _”Please,”_ he begged.

As when you’d been punching him, you didn’t know whether it was that he was too much for you to overcome, or whether you were simply too spent to continue right now. Either way, it didn’t matter: In that moment, at least, you conceded to him. You nodded your head as you looked down, and squeezed his hair with your hand in a way you never quite had before— a way intended to comfort him.

With your own pathetic sniffle you said, “Alright, Anakin,” and as you tried to temper your own tearfulness, “...I’ll try.”

His eyes widened. In a surprisingly adept and singular motion, he heaved himself up suddenly so that he was sitting next to you on the bed. Your hands fell from him, but his left did not leave your face. In his most disconcertingly hopeful whisper, “...Do you mean that? _Do you really mean that?_ ”

You meant it insofar as it might keep you safe right now, you thought. That was when it occurred to you that if he trusted you, he might just let you ‘sleep’ for a while without handcuffs— maybe he would even rest a bit, himself. Then, you could get your fork back on your person, before you had to leave it here.

Perhaps you could even use it.

You smiled at him through your tears, then, because you truly wanted him to believe you when you said, “Yes— _yes_ , Ani.” Then, as convincingly as you could manage, “I’m so sorry I didn’t understand.”

He smiled back; stroked your cheek with his thumb. “It’s okay— it’s okay, because you understand now. ...Don’t you?”

You nodded again, even if you didn’t truly comprehend how he could think this was alright; that it made any semblance of sense. He seemed as delighted, at this, as when he’d discovered the wetness concealed within your panties earlier this morning. His delight still didn’t suit him; still deeply unsettled you.

He must have been too wrapped up in his own thoughts to perceive your discomfort, or else he was ignoring it in favour of believing your words instead. He leaned into you after you’d finished nodding your affirmative answer to his strange question, and as he buried his fingers in the hair at the back of your head, he kissed you.

It was not like the one he’d given you at the reception desk, in front of the woman working there— this kiss _was_ deep, and without you wanting it to be, it was intensely intimate. You’d never kissed him before today; you’d never wanted to— you still didn’t, now, but suddenly you also didn’t have a choice.

One of your hands went back up to his hair, because that seemed like the most natural thing for it to do. You focused on it simply because it was the most marginally pleasant sensation at your disposal.

Anakin seemed to feel differently. You tried to rest your other hand on his leg, because you thought it might placate him, but found what you had feared finding— one of his sad and inexplicable hard-ons. It made him gasp into you when you touched it, even from outside his pants.

His tongue snaked its way past your lips, then, and he closed his eyes as he squeezed your hair in his hand; leaned further into you. He leaned in closely enough, in fact, that he threw off your balance, and you fell backward onto the bed— unfortunately, he came down eagerly with you, and you quickly found yourself pinned beneath him. He was still kissing you, your hands were still buried in one another’s hair, and now you could feel his cock pressing firmly into your leg.

He’d never been on top of you before, and you were stunned by how much bigger and warmer he seemed when he was enveloping you than he ever had when you were abusing him.

You continued this way for a while; eventually, he pulled his head back and thanked you. You were still trying not to cry, which he must have interpreted as some kind of invitation: He scrambled off of you to stand. He started to tug on his belt; wrenched his pants off in the unique, single-handed way to which he’d clearly become accustomed. You hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your panties and began to roll them off down your legs, because you knew he couldn’t do that without your help.

He _had_ wanted you to make this whole thing easier, hadn’t he?

Anyway, you’d committed— for the moment— to making him think that this was what you wanted to do. What better way to convince him than to give him the type of access to you that you knew he wanted, now? You rationalized that it wasn’t really all that different from what you used to do with him, and then hoped that your body would be as inexplicably hungry for his attention now as it had been earlier this morning.

You were relieved to find— as he clambered back atop you and you grasped his cock to guide it into your cunt— that it was. He held himself up with his good arm; groaned as he entered you. You responded similarly in spite of yourself, and he took very little time in beginning to thrust possessively. 

Your hands shot to his back out of instinct, and you gripped him tightly with your fingertips— much as he’d gripped you after approaching you on his knees, and beginning to cry into your lap. You thought about how quickly he was going from hot to cold on you; how little time each feeling he experienced seemed to stay with him. You feared your feigned intimacy with him, here, could prove to be a grave mistake if you weren’t able to take control of the situation very soon.

The bucking of his hips became increasingly frenzied, and you felt him start to throb— that was familiar, at least. Again without wanting to, you yelled out and thrust back up into him in return. He shouted, too, and collapsed on top of you as he erupted, and drained. The sensation of him putting his full body weight atop you was not familiar at all, and you squirmed underneath him, but he only kissed your neck between breaths as he willed himself to stop panting.

You couldn’t move, really; weren’t sure what to do. You waited, and let your hands rest on the sinewy warmth of his back. Eventually, you felt the need to venture carefully, “Anakin...?”

He slid off of you; lay next to you. He was on his right side, so he raised his hand and used it to touch your face again; he especially seemed to like to do that, you realized. You could feel damp tendrils of his hair tickle your neck as he leaned into your ear to say, “Thank you, my love.”

You tried to repress the shiver this drew from you; you couldn’t, but you were lucky enough that he once again misinterpreted your body language.

He asked, “Are you cold?”

“...Yes,” you lied.

“Get under the blanket,” he urged, and he began to move to make it easier for you to do so. He joined you beneath the sheets, and quickly settled into stroking your hair as he nestled his nose up under your jaw. Under any other set of circumstances, it would have been a lovely experience.

You were very tempted to use your imagination, and lose yourself in the sheer physicality of the moment: To focus on the warmth of his body, the admittedly perfect contours of his face pressed against your neck, and the gentleness with which he caressed you.

It would have been very easy to do, but you didn’t do it. Instead, you thought about your fork— how you might go about obtaining it from the washroom, and the way you might use it if you managed to get it back into your grasp. You thought about which parts of him might yield particularly well to its slightly-warped prongs; mentally prepared yourself for a scream of pain, and (hopefully) a spray of blood.

If you did this right, you thought, that fork of yours— along with your quality performance as a person actually willing to stay with him— could very well be your ticket out of this room, and away from Anakin for good. You realized that it didn’t matter whether you deserved this, or how similar to him you might really be: You needed to leave.

You closed your eyes and sidled up to his warmth; however, you had no intention of letting yourself fall victim to unconsciousness— not right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would strongly suggest you come back & read some of this while you listen to Pink Frost by The Chills, which was recommended by BitchinBetty, and which I absolutely cannot get enough of right now. 
> 
> She writes better than me, and she has better taste in music, so trust me on this one.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .... trigger warning ....? 🤷

“Thank you,” he told you— although you wished he’d stop. “Isn’t this better?”

It _was_ better, you thought, to have Anakin stroke your hair instead of pull it; much nicer for him to use his mouth to kiss your jaw rather than snarl orders at you. However, it wasn’t what you wanted— and you had a strong feeling that even if it was, Anakin could never have displayed this kind of behaviour with anything approaching an acceptable level of consistency.

Even as you lay in bed with him and reluctantly absorbed his attention, you were waiting: Waiting for him to have a thought or a feeling— or a suspicion— that would change his demeanour; render him unrecognizable as the person he might have been just a few minutes before. You wondered, briefly, about his wife. You thought about the eggshells she’d no doubt walked on every day just to get by, before he’d stopped letting her live to put up with him.

How long did you have, here, without a plan?

You’d expected him to fall asleep after fucking you, but he hadn’t— he’d remained awake to be affectionate, much to your inconvenience. Now that you were warmly tucked into bed next to him fresh after sex, it was harder than ever not to forget— if only for the sake of your own sanity— that Anakin was crazy.

Running your hand from his chest down to his stomach, you let your fingers trail over an expanse of firm, familiar musculature concealed by an attractive swath of smooth, white skin. He sighed into your ear; let his hand take its own journey down the side of your body. He rested it just below your bellybutton— right at the same spot he’d nearly jammed his knife into, the night he’d taken you from your room. It made you shudder and gasp at the same time.

You hadn’t answered him yet, but he said with a smile anyhow, “See?”

You smiled back at him, and nodded. “I do see, Ani,” you told him. For good measure, you added, “Thank you for showing me.”

“So you’ll stay, then?” He pressed his fingers into your flesh as he asked. Did he really think there was a chance you’d say ‘no’? Was he truly under the illusion that he’d given you an actual choice in this, or was he still only trying to manipulate you? It bothered you that you couldn’t tell, so you refocused your mind by running your hand down a little further; over his hip, and then along the inside of his thigh. There was an artery there, you knew— could you jam your fork into him deeply enough to rip it open? 

Likely not, but you enjoyed the thought. It made you press your nails into his leg, which he seemed to think was fantastic.

 _”Mmm..._ did you want more already?” His voice— _this_ one of his voices— sounded delicious to you. It was irritating.

 _If you were anyone else in Anakin’s body, I just might._ “I will soon— it’s just so nice to be here with you like this,” you said instead of what you were thinking.

He nearly looked like he’d cry again, but in a different way. “I’m so happy you feel that way,” he said; then added, “You’ll be happy, too, you know,” without specifying what, exactly, he planned on doing to make that so.

“I know,” was all you could think to say to it; luckily, that seemed to be enough, because when you did, he leaned in to kiss you some more. It was still strange to kiss him, you thought. You’d known him for what felt like a long time now, and you’d never had reason or desire to press your lips onto his. They were fantastically soft, though; softer than you’d even have expected from looking at them— and that was saying a lot, because they’d always looked beautiful. He tasted like smoke, of course, but it didn’t bother you: Rather, it suited him... unlike his kind facade, and his terrifying delight.

It was easier to kiss him right now than it was to listen to him speak.

This was why you didn’t mind getting to know the inside of his mouth for a little while— at least, until he pulled back to make a suggestion which took you somewhat by surprise.

“Come have a shower with me,” he said.

“A shower?”

“I want to kiss you under the water,” he clarified, and he grinned. He was far too handsome for his own good— or anyone else’s, for that matter.

You grinned back, and for a moment you almost forgot you were acting. You made sure to refocus your mind before it got away from you; thought about your fork digging straight into one of those gorgeous, blue eyes of his; making it seep, and bleed.

“Of course, Ani.” Up until this morning, you hadn’t invoked his nickname since he’d taken you; even before then, you’d mostly used it to mock his relationship with his wife. You found that you liked the way it sounded, now. It fit him precisely because it didn’t, although that was a shame— and it would have been nice to really mean the affection with which you said it.

He hadn’t realized that you didn’t. “Wonderful,” he whispered, and he kissed your ear. Then he mused wistfully, “I wish we had more time here.” He seemed to be in his own world right now; one he’d conjured through the sheer force of his own imagination.

“It’s okay,” you told him anyway. “We have all the time in the world, now. I don’t care where we spend it, as long as we’re together.”

You wondered if that wasn’t a bit too much as soon as you’d said it, but Anakin did not seem to think so: With another expression of his odd delight, he practically leapt from the bed; pulled you up with him by the hand. He embraced you first, then let go, and grasped your hand again to lead you into the washroom.

You felt nervous about your fork for a brief moment, but as you entered the space, you were reassured: Your weapon was, indeed, hardly visible. You had to look very carefully to see it yourself, and you were the one who’d hidden it— this rendered you confident that Anakin wouldn’t perceive it. Not until you were wielding it at him, anyway.

“Get in,” he said. With a smile, he added, “You can set the temperature.”

You nearly made a dark joke about his generosity in allowing you the privilege, but you restrained yourself, and began to step in ahead of him.

“Oh— wait,” he said, before you could.

“What?” You looked back at him.

He motioned to your bra and offered, “I can get that for you.”

Oh. You supposed you’d forgotten about it, in the midst of everything else. “...Okay,” you said, hoping he didn’t register your hesitation.

He didn’t seem to; simply stepped closer to you, and reached out with his hand to skillfully unhook the back of the only thing you still had on. His smile seemed to turn from gentle to hungry as your breasts came free and you shook the bra off over your arms. You wished you could tell what he was thinking, but you were also— somehow— quite glad that you couldn’t.

You hated the thought of him actually finding you attractive; if he did, it meant that your appreciation of _his_ physicality was not one-sided. Everything about this, you thought, should be one-sided.

“Thanks,” you said, not considering that you might have sounded a bit too impressed. That didn’t matter, though: If he thought he impressed you, then fine. He’d be all the more surprised to rediscover the truth of the matter, in that case.

“You’re welcome,” he chuckled, and you finally stepped in to begin to adjust the water.

You set the temperature where you wanted it, which right now was as hot as you could stand. After turning on the shower itself, you stood and let the warmth wash over your face and chest. You closed your eyes, and thought about perhaps getting to touch Anakin’s stomach a bit more, when he joined you. You didn’t actually enjoy the idea of having to mangle that lovely body of his, really— any part of it.

It seemed like such a shameful waste, but it was something you knew you had to do. You tried to put it out of your mind for now, because there was not much use in worrying about it until you were finished here.

Anakin stepped in behind you, and you nearly thought he was being playful, in his own strange way: You believed, at first, that he was pressing his nails into your shoulder. 

No one’s nails felt like that, though.

Before you could turn, Anakin had dropped the fork to the bottom of the shower. You heard it clatter, but you didn’t see it, because before it hit the tile, he’d already wrenched you into a headlock. You were still facing away from him; you couldn’t see his expression, but you could certainly imagine it— and his arm felt like a rock as it tensed around your neck.

You exhaled; tried to wiggle your head around so that the water pouring down on you would not go up your nose. Anankin placed his perfect lips right up next to your ear and snarled angrily through his teeth, _”Liar.”_

You started, “Anakin...”

He only tightened his grip and shouted this time, “Liar!” 

“Anakin, it’s not what you—” 

However, he’d already dragged you right out of the shower. After wrenching you from under the stream, he pulled you back into the other part of the room; forced you to sit down on the bed. Once he had, he told you, “Shut the fuck up,” and grasped a handful of your hair; made you look at him.

You tried starting again, “You really don’t understa—” 

He twisted his hand to cut you off; insisted, “I understand perfectly.”

“No, Ani,” you said, “That was before—” 

He let go of your hair and smacked you in the back of the head. _”Shut the fuck up.”_ He didn’t seem to care about what you had to say.

You started to cry.

He demanded, “Look at me!” 

You did, reluctantly. Quietly, you started yet again in barely a whisper, “Ani,” but he met the sound of your voice with a slap to the side of your face this time. You felt your head snap back with the force; wished he weren’t so strong. You looked up at him again as you recovered from the blow; you knew he’d only make you if you didn’t.

He stared down, enraged. “I’m trying my fucking best,” he said, “And it still isn’t good enough for you, is it?”

“I— I had a nice morning, Anakin,” you stammered. Although you forced yourself not to sob, goosebumps had formed on your skin because you were still wet from the shower. You could even still hear the water running; feel the steam it generated adding humidity to the room— that might have been your only tangible comfort, right then.

“Did you?” He was incredulous; mocking.

“I really did,” you said more quietly. You hadn’t, of course, but this was all you had left, now.

He shook his head, and turned to rummage through his jacket on the table. You knew what he was digging around for. You started to ask him not to, but he interrupted you by saying once more, _”Shut the fuck up.”_

You supposed you were lucky he wasn’t punching you in the face, you thought— or strangling you. You shut the fuck up. He walked over to you once he’d retrieved his weapon, and knelt down on the floor to look you in the eye. He let the tip of his blade rest on your chin, this time.

He asked through a paper-thin veneer of calm, “Where were you going to stab me?”

“I— I wasn’t—”

_”Where were you going to stab me?”_

“Um... in— well, probably in the eye,” you admitted shakily, as he pushed gently on the knife. You supposed you were finished trying to play tricks on him, now. The room suddenly felt even colder, in spite of the steam. Still naked and wet, you shivered. You felt the sharp point he’d jabbed into your chin move with you.

Anakin also did not have any clothes, and he was damp, too— but he didn’t seem cold. As his glare intensified, “How could you?”

“I— I just—”

_”You just what?”_

You started to cry again. It was stupid to move, or do anything which might cause you to move, but the devastation of your plan having blown up on you was too much. This was supposed to have worked. You really had thought you could pull it off, and the pain of having been wrong was intense.

He shook his head; dragged the tip of his knife down underneath your chin, and then vertically along your neck, until it rested in the hollow at the base of your throat. “I asked if you thought I was stupid, and you said ‘no’. Why did you lie?”

Eyes squeezed shut, you whispered, “I don’t think you’re stupid.”

He shouted very loudly and very suddenly, _”Then why did you try to hide a fork in the fucking bathroom?!”_

You flinched, which seemed to upset him further, because threw his knife to the floor, then. He moved quickly to use his hand to grab you, instead— by the neck. You tried not to think about his wife as you struggled to whisper, “I just want to go home.”

“No one fucking cares what you want,” he growled, and he began to stand up so that he could push you down onto the bed. You didn’t resist; as you fell back, he leaned over you. He didn’t take his hand away from your throat as he clambered up to straddle your waist with his knees. Even his right bicep was drawn back a bit, as though he were prepared to jam the scarred stump of his arm into your side if you moved the wrong way. You’d never thought about how much that might hurt. He squeezed.

Through the pressure he was applying to your airway, you tried to squeak out, “Please, Anakin,” but the noise you made hardly sounded like a pair of words. You tried kicking, but he pinched your sides sharply between his legs when you did. That hurt just enough to make you stop— and you already knew your arms were useless against him. You thought back to when you would choke him; wondered how it ever made him horny. Then, you considered what colour your face might have turned by now. Your own vision was darkening.

Perhaps he realized that you weren’t going to try anything more on him; maybe he simply decided that he didn’t want to be responsible for killing two women in the span of a single week. For whatever reason, though, he loosened his grasp. As you drew in a grateful breath, he tentatively took his hand away. He did keep it raised, however... as if he might be thinking about slapping you again.

He stared for what felt like a long time. His anger did not dissipate— you knew it never did— but it seemed to sink back down into him; become concealed underneath a new layer of manufactured calm. You were still too scared (maybe too smart?) to try to take advantage of that right now, so you simply looked back at him and appreciated being able to breathe.

When he finally spoke, he was much quieter than he had been before; in fact, he sounded almost disappointed. “I trusted you,” he said, which you highly doubted— but, maybe he really thought it was true.

“I’m sorry,” you answered, and you really were— you hadn’t wanted this. You thought about laying in bed with him; about touching his chest while he kissed your neck. That _had_ been a lot better than this, you thought.

Maybe you actually had been stupid to ruin it: For him, and for you, too. You’d been starting to suspect that he was right when he told you this was your fault as much as it was his; maybe you should have accepted more responsibility: Perhaps you really ought to have tried to help him more.

Before one of the more prescient parts of your brain could remind you that this line of thinking was absurd, he accused in a voice which sounded especially soaked in pain, “I don’t believe you.”

“You have to, Ani, _please_.” Without thinking— you couldn’t think anymore right now; you just wanted him not to kill you— you begged, “Can we just try again? You know how long it took me to understand.” You still didn’t understand and you doubted you ever would, but if it was this important to him, then perhaps you had to try... or pretend, or _something_. You finished with a sniffle, “Can you please just give me one more chance?”

Now he looked like he was going to cry again, too. “I want to, but how can I?” He reached down to touch your face— he was always touching your face, now— before pinching your chin between his thumb and forefinger so that you wouldn’t move your head. He leaned down a bit; seemed to examine your expression as he repeated himself more quietly, “...How can I?”

“I’ll be good,” you tried, which was absolutely pathetic, but you’d been frightened enough when he’d begun to choke you that you’d stopped caring about whether or not you seemed pathetic... or strong, or weak, or smart, or stupid, or anything else. You’d never been quite so close to dying as you’d been when he was squeezing your neck, and it made you realize that— more than absolutely anything else— you wanted to stay alive.

If being ‘good’ for Anakin could keep you that way, then so be it. You only hoped that you were up to the task— he did not seem like an especially easy person to please, really, and you had no idea when your next viable opportunity to escape him would present itself. Unfortunately, he truly was not stupid: Just freakishly strong, and dangerously unstable, it seemed.

He shifted his grip on your face, then. He pinched your cheeks instead of your chin so that you’d open your mouth. You thought he was going to spit into it the same way you used to like spitting into his, but he didn’t do that— instead, he bent down low, and kissed you. He let go of your face as his tongue slid into your mouth, and braced his good arm beside your head on the bed. He used it to support himself as he lowered his body down onto yours slowly, so that he was laying atop you again. It was just like after having sex with him, before your ill-fated attempt at a shower.

You sighed as his warmth enveloped you, and your skin began to stop feeling so cold.

He broke the kiss. Then, in a way that could almost have been described as sensuous, he whispered directly into your ear, “I still don’t believe you.”

Without hesitation, you offered, “How can I prove it to you?”

You could have sworn you detected a growl from the back of his throat; then, he sank his teeth very suddenly into your neck. You drew in a harsh breath. When he was finished, he said solemnly, “I have no idea— but guess I’ll have to figure something out, won’t I?” He shook his head and added, “Why did you have to make this more difficult? I was being _so fucking nice to you._ ”

“I don’t know, Ani,” you said. “I’m sorry...”

This was when you noticed his cock had grown hard again, which was the last thing you’d have expected. However, you were grateful for it, because it gave you an opportunity— an opportunity to show Anakin that you were, in fact, going to be good for him. You reached down, snaked your hand between the two of you, and gripped him by the shaft. He shifted to make it easier for you, and then gasped as you tightened your hold on him.

He didn’t say anything, so you finished in a whisper, “...I promise.”

It didn’t even occur to you to try to hurt him as you guided him inside you for the second time that morning. You also did not protest as he began to immediately rut into you again. He moved a bit more desperately this time; a bit more roughly, and— perhaps— with a little less finesse. Your hands travelled to his back again, and you squeezed him just as tightly as you had before. Without entirely meaning to, you moaned his name, which made him pause to kiss you once more.

You fucked until he went off again; nearly as hard as last time, although with a bit less fanfare. You wouldn’t have admitted it an hour ago, but it felt good— better than getting strangled, anyway. Much better than getting threatened with a knife, hit in the head, or led around by the hair. You let your fingertips trail gently over his back as you considered this, and as he caught his breath.

He didn’t speak, nor did he move.

He would also still not fall asleep. Not before chaining you to the radiator again, anyway. It was several hours, still, before the sun would set and Anakin would feel comfortable leaving the room to dispose of his old vehicle— he’d want to rest before he had to do that, and he didn’t trust you not to run while he did. 

For now, though, he let you hold him as the room continued to steam up from the water you’d left running. He seemed to need it, after the morning he’d had— and anyway, you wanted his rage quelled for as long as it could possibly be quelled. Your head was pounding from his having hit you, and the sensation of him gripping you by the neck was not one you had remotely enjoyed. If your only two options were to experience that, or this...

Well, then you knew which you were going to choose. 

Staying alive, you realized, had to come before running away from Anakin— because you knew you couldn’t leave him if you were dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ouch.


	9. Chapter 9

Anakin did not allow you to come with him when he disposed of his old vehicle. You weren’t sure if that was supposed to be a punishment, or if he simply didn’t want the inconvenience of walking you back to the hotel from wherever he’d decided to leave it. Either way, he’d had you tie a piece of a torn pillowcase tightly around your own head to gag yourself before he chained you up. Again, what he lacked in dexterity, he more than made up for with his strength... and an ever-increasing ability to force your obedience. He left his right arm on the table in the room, to your surprise.

You waited for him patiently— nude, mute, and bound by both wrists to the foot of the radiator, this time. You understood how sad and pathetic you must have looked, because Anakin had often looked that way to you, too. This was why being in such a position didn’t bother you as much as it probably should have— you were the one who liked to spit in his face, after all. Given that, this was almost fitting, wasn’t it?

He was gone for several hours; so long, in fact, that part of you wondered if he was even coming back. He hadn’t left the remote for the television near you; even if he had, you couldn’t have used it. So, in the absence of any sort of noise or other external stimulation, you had plenty of time to allow your mind to wander... and of course, it wandered to him.

You still liked fucking him, although that didn’t entirely feel good to acknowledge. Mental instability and propensity toward violence aside, however, Anakin couldn’t stop being an embodiment of physical perfection— and the more unwanted attention he gave you, the easier it became to focus on his body, as opposed to what he was actually doing to your mind.

It was a defence mechanism, to be sure— but it was at least one in which you could take some pleasure. You did that then, as you shamefully fantasized in your solitude about sex with a man who seemed to feel the need to chain you up when he was finished with you. You wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, but presently, you thought of kissing him just as much as you didn’t; of being pinned beneath him as much as sitting high atop him. You also thought less of abusing him with your belt or your hands than you would have before, and more about things like the way his hair felt between your fingers, and the texture of his lips on your neck.

These thoughts were safe and protective on one level, but on another they were dangerous: Nothing about Anakin should make you feel happy. Luckily, though, you still retained the presence of mind to understand this: You had no intention of letting him drag you down into the depths of his strange fantasy world. If that’s where he wanted to live, he’d have to live there by himself... no matter what he looked like.

This was the last solitary thought you had before he re-entered the room. 

“Fuck,” was the first thing he said when he did. He looked tired, and he was both sweaty and caked in dirt. Now you understood why he’d left his arm here while he’d been away— you supposed he especially couldn’t afford to damage it, now. What had he done with his old car, anyway? It wasn’t as if you could ask. 

Why did you care?

He seemed to ignore you while he gathered his thoughts; settled into the room by shaking off his jacket and lighting a cigarette. Finally, he looked in your direction. You couldn’t read him just then.

“We have to leave in the morning,” he told you. There was no discernible emotion in his voice, either. “Not too early— and not too late.” He took a drag off of his smoke, and a step toward you. He finished by asking, “Are you going to be stupid?”

You shook your head; he took another step.

“Are you _sure_?”

You nodded. 

“I still don’t believe you, you know.”

You sighed through the strip of pillowcase shoved into your mouth. Of course he didn’t. Then, you made a pleading noise, and looked straight up at him. He seemed to think for a moment— was he planning on leaving you here this way until it was time to go?

Maybe not. “Would you like to get up?”

You nodded again.

He knelt down a bit stiffly after retrieving his key to your cuffs. You had no idea what he’d had to go through to get rid of his car— or come back to you— but, perhaps he’d been hurt. You wondered about it. ...Why did you wonder?

“Alright,” he said as he unlocked you from the radiator.

He stood; you pulled your newly-freed hands to your chest and rubbed at where the metal loops had begun to dig into your wrists. After that, you searched with your fingers for the knot tied behind your head to release yourself from your makeshift gag. You remained on the floor; your own legs were stiff, too. Anakin’s expression still didn’t change, but he kept his cigarette in his mouth and held out his hand to you. 

You took it this time.

After getting up, you asked him, “Are you okay? What happened?” 

“I’m fine— and nothing happened.” He let go of your hand and took hold of his smoke again. “What do you care?”

That absolutely should not have hurt your feelings or made you feel defensive, but it did. “You were gone a long time,” you pointed out. “I was curious.”

He turned away from you, stretched his arm, and said, “Sorry to disappoint you by coming back.” 

You weren’t disappointed— you were actually quite happy to be unbound. You started, “Anakin...”

Without looking at you, he interrupted, “What?”

You flinched, because he sounded upset. “I’m sorry,” you said.

He did turn back around, now. “For what?”

“For... well, for being stupid,” you told him. You still wished your plan had worked, but now that it hadn’t, you were determined to stay on Anakin’s good side. You knew he had one— it just happened to be one of a few too many others, it seemed.

He eyed you suspiciously. You hadn’t put any clothes on yet. He asked, “Do you mean that?”

“Yes,” you said, and you stepped toward him. “I mean it.”

“Fine,” he said, and he sat down on the bed. “You can help me, then.”

“What?” 

He tugged his pant leg up to reveal what looked to be a deep gash— a couple inches long, maybe— across the back of his calf. His pants were black; you hadn’t noticed them torn, or soaked through with his blood when he’d walked in. 

Your eyes widened. “What happened?” 

“Junk in the woods,” he said. “I couldn’t see.”

“How bad is it?”

“Not that bad— but I’ll need soap, water, and the rest of that pillowcase.” He winced in spite of himself as he rotated his ankle, then looked back at you expectantly. You got up to retrieve what he’d asked for, after taking a closer look at his wound. It was bloody, and obviously very fresh— but not quite bad enough for you to take advantage of. You supposed you would have to take care of it instead.

You asked him, “Do you need anything else?”

“Just one of your hands,” he chuckled uncharacteristically.

You didn’t know why that made you smile too, but it did. Smiling was a relief. “Okay,” you told him, and once you had everything you needed in one place, you knelt on the floor and went to work on his leg.

He watched you without speaking, except to instruct you on how you should wrap up his injury once it was clean. You wondered where he’d learned the technique, but didn’t ask.

After finishing, “Is that okay?”

“Perfect,” he said. He examined the wrapping; seemed satisfied. Then, he pulled his pant leg back down over it, looked at you instead, and added, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” you told him. Then, you both just sat. You didn’t know what to say, or even what he’d do if you spoke, so you were quiet. Anakin was quiet, too. Soon, he finished his cigarette and got up to put it out in an ashtray on the desk; after that, he just stood— and became unreadable to you again.

He sighed.

You asked him, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said. 

You were the one who sighed this time. You hated not knowing what he was feeling, because if you didn’t know, then it could be nearly anything. You wished you hadn’t tried to pull your stupid fork trick. This whole ordeal had become infinitely more frightening since you’d done that; more unpleasant, too. You had also thought that Anakin couldn’t possibly be more unpredictable than he had already seemed, but you’d been wrong.

More than anything, you wanted to know what might be coming at you next— but you had no way of accomplishing as much, except by attempting to control his behaviour. You’d tried to do that by force, and it hadn’t worked. Maybe, you mused, you’d catch more flies with honey than with badly-bent eating utensils. He’d been quiet a little while, by now.

You tried, “Ani?”

“What?” He only seemed mildly annoyed.

“I’m sorry.”

He waited, then sat back down on the bed beside you. “...I am, too,” he said, finally. He still didn’t have a discernible expression on his face.

You reached up with your fingers and touched his cheek. You were very gentle. Would he like that? You had no idea what he liked, really. He flinched; you started to withdraw your hand, but then he raised his own and caught it. He squeezed your fingers affectionately; brought them back to his face. Then— to your great surprise— he nuzzled your palm, and kissed it softly.

You sighed again, but differently this time. He smiled. “Do you like that?” He sounded nearly like he did the first time he’d asked, when he’d been fingering your clit through your panties— but, like you, he sounded just a bit different right now. You wondered who he was.

“Yes,” you said, and for once you weren’t lying to him. That really did feel nice... and unless you were imagining it, he seemed almost lucid right now; _present_. It was an enormous relief; just enough of one, in fact, to make you enjoy his touch. It was kind, and right now, that made you happy. Anyone would have excused you for being emotionally exhausted by this point; forgiven you for smiling back at him— wouldn’t they? You did smile back.

“I don’t want you to be miserable,” he said, and he sounded like he meant it.

“Thank you,” was all you could think to say.

He seemed genuinely regretful as he kissed your hand again and continued, “I still can’t let you go, you know.”

“I know,” you said. You were already aware that he wasn’t going to let you go. For now, this would have to do— you’d have to be patient. At least he seemed as if he might be willing to make it easier, as long as you tried for him, too.

“Thank you for understanding.” He squeezed your hand again; finally released it, but you let it rest on his leg. He seemed surprised that you did. “What are you trying to do?” he asked. Was he paranoid? Or was he just extremely self-aware right now— did he realize that it made no sense for you to want to touch him? There was no way to tell.

“I’m trying to be good,” you said— and hoped you sounded as eager as you thought you did.

“Are you really?” He wasn’t mocking you; he actually wanted to know, it seemed.

You nodded; leaned into him more closely. He smelled like smoke, dirt, and vague notes of copper; his hair was a damp, tangled mess. It should have bothered you, all of it... but for now, you were still just happy he wasn’t getting angry.

“Kiss me, then,” he said. It sounded more like a dare or a challenge than an order.

Kiss him? You’d sooner have expected him to ask you to strangle him— or spit on him, or punch him. Let him fuck you, even— but not kiss him. Why would he ask for something it would have been so easy for him to just take? You leaned in the rest of the way, and placed your lips gingerly atop his.

He didn’t make any sudden movements; didn’t push into you too hard, or try to lay you back on the bed. He didn’t even use his tongue, this time— although he did raise his hand to cup your jaw with his palm. You were nervous about that at first, but he was gentle.

You pulled back after you were finished; asked him, “Like that?”

He smiled and lowered his hand. “Yes— like that.”

You leaned back in, and did it again— that time, he did use his tongue; did press into you a little bit harder than you’d anticipated. You didn’t resist; he wasn’t overbearing.

“How much time do we have?” You were curious.

“We’ll leave when the sun comes up,” he said.

That wasn’t for a couple of hours, yet. You thought to yourself; thought about all the things you could do in that time which might help you earn back some of his trust.

“Lie down,” you said, very carefully.

“What?” It seemed you’d surprised him again. Good.

“I want you to lie down,” you reiterated. You still spoke gently.

“You know I’m still not stupid, don’t you?”

“I’m not going to try anything,” you said. You were still naked, and you didn’t have anything to hurt him with— you were telling the truth. 

He ran his eyes over you; seemed to consider your proposal. No, he definitely still wasn’t stupid... but he’d clearly let his guard down a bit here, in the pain and exhaustion of having to rid himself of his car. Again, you weren’t quite sure who he was right now.

He asked, “What are you going to do?” but he laid back on the bed anyway. Apart from his jacket and shoes, he was still entirely dressed, although his clothes were rumpled and sweaty. They were dirty, too.

“I’m going to return a favour,” you said. That was also true. You began to undo his belt, and although he looked at you strangely, he didn’t try to stop you. He also didn’t take his eyes off of you.

He wasn’t hard yet; not when you first pulled his cock out, but you hadn’t really expected him to be— he’d had a very big night already, after all. You placed your mouth on him anyhow; sucked and even nipped at his head, and ran your tongue lengthwise down his slowly-stiffening shaft. This was something you’d done before, and you already knew you liked the sensation of him growing hard in your mouth.

Typically, Anakin did not like it— or didn’t seem to— but right now, he didn’t appear to mind. 

“Fuck,” he gasped, which shocked you, because he still didn’t sound like himself when he said it. You realized that you’d scarcely ever seen or heard him express any emotions beyond fear, anger, and grief— even in the midst of sex. You weren’t sure what he was feeling right now, but whatever it was, you were not quite used to it.

That was okay: At least it wasn’t bad.

You took your mouth away so that you could speak, but you replaced it with your hand to spare his wet, newly-erect cock the shock of the room’s cool air. “Do you like that?” You even tried to use his own intonation when you asked.

“Ah... _yes_ ,” he answered. Could men tell lies, like this? You doubted it. You should have asked him a better question.

“I’m glad,” you said instead, with a smile. You didn’t know if he had anything left to give you, right now— but you wanted him to be as happy as he could be, before you had to travel with him again. You replaced your mouth on him; took his length as far back into your throat as you could. Somehow, you still liked the way he tasted— he was a little extra salty tonight, maybe. He’d thrown out a car, after all.

You soon settled into a rhythm; snaked your hand up under his shirt to stroke his stomach as you moved your head up and down. You touched him like this without even thinking. He made a beautiful noise, and so you raked your nails softly along his ribcage in the hope of drawing another out of him. You got what you wanted as he began to thrust his hips. He also grasped your hair in his hand, which frightened you a little... but, once again, he was gentle. You weren’t really used to him being gentle— like his nickname, though, it suited him because it didn’t. You hoped you could keep him touching you this way, as opposed to any other. 

You thought of biting him, but you didn’t do it. His hand tensed in your hair; he groaned, and pulsed. Eventually, he finished. Although there was not much for you to lick up right now, you savoured the taste as he gave you what he did have— you’d never actually let him do that into your mouth before. It felt strange the same way kissing him had, at first, but you didn’t mind: Again, it was infinitely more enjoyable than many other things he could have done.

He let go of you, and so you looked up at him. He seemed tired; you watched his chest move up and down with his breathing. He motioned for you to crawl up to the head of the bed to join him, and you did. He wrapped you up in his arm and kissed you. You wondered if he could taste himself on your tongue.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. It didn’t bother you this time.

You answered, “You’re welcome,” much as when you’d fixed up his leg. Then you asked him kindly, “Do you need to sleep?” It reminded you of letting him rest in your room, which you still regretted.

“I’m not sure,” he said, “but do you think you could grab the handcuffs from the floor and bring them over here?”

“Huh?”

He chuckled, “I’m _still_ not fucking stupid,” which unsettled you, because you’d genuinely thought he’d lowered his defences, for the time being. Perhaps he never really did that, though— maybe he was always on guard. It would have made sense. But why weren’t his feelings hurt? They likely were. 

_Oh well. It doesn’t matter. At least he’s being nice._ “...Okay,” you told him, and you got up to retrieve them from the floor. 

“Now, attach yourself to the head of the bed,” he instructed. You did, by one hand. The frame was large and heavy. He thanked you for listening, then took the key to unlock the cuffs out of his pants, and placed it on the nightstand next to the bed. It was far beyond your reach. After he’d done that, he tucked his cock away, and rolled over. He didn’t say anything else, and you couldn’t be sure whether he’d fallen asleep or not.

You thought about leaving with Anakin; thought about where he might be taking you next— you couldn’t begin to guess. You wondered if he had a plan, or if he was just going to start driving, as he had before. You thought about the woman at the reception desk downstairs; considered trying to communicate with her on your way out.

Then you remembered about the fork, and the shower, and you became frightened again. You knew he’d be wearing his jacket; carrying his knife. You also knew he could maim or kill you with it long before anyone would arrive to help you, if you made a scene. Likely he could kill the receptionist with it as well, unless she had a more effective weapon at her disposal— and you couldn’t be sure enough of that either way to want to take a chance on it.

You looked over at him; found your mind drifting back to thoughts of touching and kissing him rather than trying to escape from him. These thoughts were significantly more pleasant.

You felt less scared, then, and it was relieving to feel less scared. You were sick of being scared.

If your mind wanted to wander, you supposed you’d just have to let it do that, because it seemed that it was only trying to keep you safe.

You waited for the sun to come up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t worry, I’ll wrap it up soon.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry!!!!

He was crying at you again— he was usually crying, when he asked for this lately. You’d only been trying to sleep, and he had woken you in a panic: Eyes wide and wet, skin clammy. His lucidity from the end of your stay at the hotel had, unfortunately, been short-lived: He was back to what you were starting to believe was his usual self, now. He had begun to grow jittery again when you got back on the road with him; soon after that, his phone had started going off, as he had predicted it would.

He’d tossed it out the window without looking at it, and his state of mind had seemed to worsen with every passing hour since. You’d been driving for close to three days, now; the car was unbearably hot and stuffy, and it absolutely reeked of smoke. You had a bit of food, some fuel, lots of cigarettes for Anakin, and not much else besides that. You were pulled into a clearing off a dirt road right now; you hadn’t seen another car for hours.

You also had no idea what he was planning. In fact, you thought, you weren’t entirely sure he even had the ability to _make_ plans anymore. Worse now more than ever, he was scaring you. It was more difficult to get your mind to wander here than it had been in the hotel, and so it had taken a lot for you to fall asleep tonight— you weren’t happy about having been jarred. Not that there was much you could do about it, of course.

“What is it?” you asked, although you were sure you already knew.

“It happened again. She’s already fucking dead— _why does it keep happening?”_

You sighed, and ignored the fear welling up inside you. It was becoming too familiar. You hated his stupid dreams. “I don’t know, Ani,” you said. “But I don’t think—”

_”—Please.”_

Arguing would only make it worse. Arguing only _ever_ made it worse. He reached into his pocket, retrieved his key, and leaned over your lap to unlock you from the car door. He had, indeed, jammed it soon after obtaining the vehicle— and after loading you in, he’d hooked you onto the newly-altered door by your handcuffs. Any time he couldn’t keep an eye on you, he would lock you up. 

This had been one of those times: You both had been trying to sleep. Now, though, it seemed he needed you— so, both hands having been freed, you reached down to the floor of the car. You couldn’t believe you’d actually once enjoyed doing this to him... but, things had seemed different, then.

He shifted his seat back, and waited for you to climb on top of him. You did, belt in hand. It was dark, but your eyes had grown used to it, for the most part. The moon, at least, was bright.

“How bad was it this time?”

“The same as every other time. _Tell me I’m shit._ ”

You wished you still thought he was. “You’re shit, Anakin,” you said, even though you didn’t believe it. You added, “And you’re sick beyond all fucking redemption,” which you figured was a little bit closer to the truth. Then, you looped the belt around his neck and pulled the strap tight, like you used to love to do.

Part of you wondered if he wasn’t in a bad enough state of mind to let you choke him to the point of unconsciousness, or even beyond that. If he was, and you did, then you could just run— or dump him, and take the car. If not yet, then perhaps soon. You knew he hadn’t been eating properly; if his body had to start consuming those lovely muscles of his to keep his organs working, it meant you might be able to gain a physical advantage over him.

He still terrified you; still used his body to intimidate you and pleasure you in turns, but this frenzied dash with him felt worlds-away from your comparatively calm stay at the motel. Being patient here was a much more arduous endeavour; insulating yourself from his growing instability, too, was harder now that you were stuck in a car with him all day and night.

You felt bad for him; you’d always felt bad for him— that was what had gotten you into this mess in the first place. You also knew, however, that this leg of the journey was utterly unsustainable. He would never listen to you, so you had to wait for him to deteriorate to the point that he could no longer control you. You knew it would happen if you stayed out here long enough; however, you didn’t know how long, precisely, it would take. 

Anakin simultaneously grated on the last of your badly-frayed nerves, and inexplicably endeared himself to you every time the two of you interacted. It was disconcerting to feel pity, hatred, and attraction in such strong measures all at the same time.

When he shouted at you, or raised his hand as though he were going to grasp you around the neck or smack you, you would squeeze your eyes shut and think of him kissing your palm. He had been almost normal, that night. Was there anything you could have done to help him maintain that demeanour? Or had this descent been inevitable? There was no way for you to know.

You could hardly tell what colour his face had turned in the dark, but he’d raised his arm and begun to squeeze your side. It hurt; you released him.

You were crying now, too— like him. You didn’t really know why. “I fucking hate you,” you said, and you spat at him. He never argued when you spat at him. It used to turn you on, but now it mostly just gave you a sense of dark, futile satisfaction.

He sobbed back as he caught his breath, “I know.”

You let go of the belt altogether, and leaned in to kiss him. You couldn’t think of anything else to do, and he was still beautiful— even in his worsening hysteria. He kissed you back; you reached down and felt between his legs, but he wasn’t hard. This frustrated you. If he was going to wake you up to abuse him, you at least wanted something in return.

This was how you were rationalizing your enjoyment of your continued intimacy with him: He still owed you payment for your work; he just happened to have rendered money useless to you right now. It made sense that he should compensate you with his body, since it was about the only thing he had left that you would ever have wanted. It was still helpful for you to distract yourself this way.

“What the fuck do I have to do to make you hard, Ani? You’re fucking useless.” You weren’t acting; you were scared, tired, and fed up.

“Tell me you hate me again.”

_”I hate you.”_

“Tell me what I am.”

“You’re a murderer, and a sick fuck.”

“Now spit on me again,” he begged, as his hand fell from your side.

You spit on him. He grimaced, but his dick twitched in your hand; stiffened up impressively, really, all things considered. What the fuck was wrong with him? It didn’t matter. You freed him from his pants, hiked his wife’s dress up over your hips (her things were all he would let you wear, now— not that it mattered), and eased his ignoble hardness into you. The stretch burned a little; you were dehydrated and not especially turned-on... but, you wanted to take something from him. It didn’t matter what. 

You braced yourself with one hand against the headrest, but the other you let yourself press into the still-enticing musculature of his chest. That helped to get you into the right headspace, at least. You began to thrust as best you could in the tight space; it meant most of his cock stayed buried inside of you, and you could feel every tiny throb and jolt. 

You thought about him kissing your hand once more; recalled the sensation of his weight pressed atop you as he’d rutted desperately into your cunt. Then you thought about feeling bad for him, before you knew what he could really do. This also helped— all of it helped.

It helped enough that as he quivered in just the right way; as you came down on him to the distinctly satisfying feeling of his golden-blonde pubic hairs tickling your clit, you were able to let go. You breathed his name; groaned, then said to no one in particular, _”Fuck.”_

Your clenching around him— or maybe it had been your spitting, or your insults, or even your hand on his chest— set him off, too. For whatever reason, that made you feel better about yourself, which was nice: Anakin’s self-loathing happened to be contagious, it seemed. The longer you stayed with him, the more frightened you became of being like him. Fear and anger dominated your mind, and he’d nearly convinced you, by this point, of your shared culpability in the death of his wife.

The only thing saving you, you thought, was that you still wanted to leave.

He groaned back at you; you pushed yourself up and off of him, and returned to your seat. You didn’t speak. You did look over at Anakin as you felt him drip out of you; his eyes were half-closed and he was breathing hard. It seemed as if he’d gone away for a minute, at least in his mind. You’d both stopped crying.

You thought; remembered that you’d filled a bottle of water at the last rest stop before parking here. Where was it? You reached down; started to rummage about the floor of the car.

Your elbow hit the door; made a noise.

Anakin’s hand gripped your upper arm like a vice as he demanded, _”What the fuck are you doing?”_

“Nothing! I’m trying to find my water!”

He glared at you; squeezed.

More quietly, you told him, “I mean it, Ani.”

He released you. 

“Thank you,” you said.

“You’re not fucking going anywhere. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know, Anakin.”

“I’ll be right back,” he said. “Don’t you dare fucking move.”

You hadn’t yet; why would you now? “I won’t.”

He leered again; got out of the car, and locked the doors. Yours didn’t open, anyway. Very suddenly, you felt the vehicle tilt and jolt— this was accompanied by a series of loud, hard thumps. You turned your head to look out the back window, and caught a glimpse of Anakin mercilessly kicking and beating the back end of the car.

What the fuck was he doing?

You studied his face as best you could; it was very dark. You couldn’t see much of him, but you could tell that he was utterly consumed by rage. You supposed you were glad he was taking it out on the car and not you, but you also didn’t understand what was going on.

Was it you who had pissed him off, or had it been something from inside his own head? You didn’t know; it also didn’t matter. He was still fucking crazy.

You waited for him to stop, but it took him a while to calm down. You weren’t sure whether it was the smoke with which Anakin had constantly been filling the car, or the heat that had built up inside of it from a combination of sex, warm weather, and rarely getting out; however, you began to feel dizzy.

Finally, he returned. He slammed the door shut as he sat down; didn’t say a word, just breathed.

“I have to pee,” you said to him. You really did, but you also needed to exit the car for a few moments. You weren’t going to run; not yet. You feared he might still be faster than you. He was certainly still stronger— and anyway, he had a vehicle.

He stared at you wide-eyed, but he still didn’t say anything.

“I’m not lying,” you promised. “I have to go— please?” Your head was spinning; you needed fresh air. 

He took a deep breath, and waited. Then, “Go in front of the car, where I can see you.” Once you’d nodded, he added, “Don’t be stupid.” You weren’t planning on it. Where would you have gone?

When he was sure you understood, he moved to let you climb over him. 

You asked somewhat tentatively first, “Is there still toilet paper in the trunk?”

“Yes,” he said, but he sounded irritated. “I’m fucking watching you.”

You’d have expected no less from him.

You climbed over his lap, stepped out, and closed the door behind you. You could feel his eyes on you, although the windows were all shut. You shivered. It wasn’t cold outside; not at all, but it was significantly cooler than in the car, which felt as though it had become stiflingly hot after your most recent sex with Anakin. You felt a lot less dizzy after a few deep breaths of fresh air.

He continued to watch you as you walked to the back. He popped the trunk open so that you could retrieve your toilet paper.

As soon as you opened it, the stench of gasoline overwhelmed you. 

You wrinkled your nose, registered the toppled canister leaking its fluid all over the trunk and into the back seat, and slammed the hatch closed immediately. You decided you could make do with a leaf; judging by the smell and the position of the can, the rest of what you’d stored back there was ruined, anyhow.

When you got back into the car, you would tell Anakin, and ask him to open the windows. You’d grown up watching your parents smoke and refuel at the same time. Because of this, you knew Anakin’s cigarettes were unlikely to be dangerous to you, here— but you still didn’t want to inhale the fumes, even if you could scarcely smell them over his smoke.

You walked back around to the front of the vehicle. The headlights were turned off, but you knew Anakin could see you. You wondered if he was beginning to feel dizzy, by now— you didn’t really know how long that canister had been leaking, or how much its fumes had built up in the muggy heat of the car. At least you knew you weren’t sick— maybe he’d be in a better mood after airing it out, although you doubted it.

You squatted into a patch of tall grass, hiked up that stupid dress you had to wear, and tried to relax. Anakin made relaxing nearly impossible, of course— and he’d also made it his business to completely consume your thoughts. So, you tried to focus on the most pleasant of the ones you could conjure at that moment: Mostly, they involved your captor’s less volatile side.

You’d liked him squeezing your fingers affectionately; kissing your hand. He’d never shown you much of his good side, but as you mused before, you knew he had one. Had he reeled his wife in with his soft lips and handsome grin? It would have been easy for him, you reflected, as long as he’d been having a good day. Or had it been his chest which had won her over? That would have been superficial, but conceivable. Had she liked to stroke his stomach and toy with his bellybutton, too? You loved to claw at his back during sex, you’d found— maybe she had once liked to do that, as well. Maybe he’d liked to massage her; he was good at that, you knew.

Even fixing his leg had not felt like a chore. He had made you smile while you’d done it, and even praised your efforts. He hadn’t complained of pain since you wrapped it, but you thought you should probably check it soon, lest it become dirty or infected. The way he’d thanked you for helping him with it made you imagine that Anakin might nearly have been something akin to a gentleman; again, on a good day.

He would have been an easy man to fall in love with, you considered, if it weren’t for the strange darkness he seemed to hold in his heart. You felt sad for his wife; he’d apparently been more honest with you than her about the more sinister part of his nature.

You knew Anakin was sick. 

You did, indeed, dab at yourself then with a leaf— it was scratchy, but also it was the least of your worries. Then, you stood and looked in the direction of the car. Anakin hadn’t moved, but he did look angry. You’d taken too long in the grass, thinking about him. You felt ashamed of yourself for it, but at the same time, you wanted to spare his lungs. You started to walk back toward the car to let him know what had happened.

You stopped in your tracks, however, when it seemed to ignite from the inside. There was a burst of flame, the rear windows rattled, and— in spite of your dizziness— there had clearly been more than enough oxygen present in that smokey little box to encourage the fire to spread. 

It took you a moment to register what you were really looking at.

It didn’t make sense. _Cigarettes don’t do that,_ you thought. 

...A lighter might, though, you realized... in a hot, enclosed space with so much smoke in the air that no one would ever have been able to smell a fuel leak from the trunk. Who knew how long that gas had been soaking into the soft surfaces of the car, releasing its vapours?

Maybe Anakin’s tantrum had made it worse; maybe the spill had happened entirely on the road. There was no way to know, and it was just another thing that didn’t matter, now.

You saw him turn in his seat; panic. The back upholstery and both of your bags were completely engulfed in flames, by then, and the fire was still spreading through. You saw his door begin to open, but it swung shut again: He’d had to let go of it to spin around, and looked to be trying to use his good hand to pat out a fire which had apparently started somewhere else on or near his person. 

He flailed, then, and released a scream. Thankfully, to you it seemed muffled... but you could certainly imagine what it would have sounded like in your ear.

You thought about running up to the car; about pulling his door open and trying to wrench him out. He’d ceased paying attention to you, obviously, but surely he was wondering why you weren’t coming to help? The smoke was thick, and dark. You wondered what breathing felt like in there. The fire was getting brighter, although its heat was still contained.

You wondered why the whole thing wasn’t exploding, but maybe that only happened in the movies.

You took a step back; by then, the plastic of the centre console had caught, and flames were rapidly spreading around the front.

You had already lost sight of Anakin amidst the smoke, but you knew he was still in there— likely writhing on the floor, trying to beat out flaming patches of his own clothing. Or maybe he was already unconscious... or, perhaps, he was fully aware of his predicament and simply couldn’t do anything about it from the position in which he’d placed himself. You wondered if his shoes were melting; if he could still hear, or see.

By the time you realized you’d done it, you found you had been thinking too long again.

The night was still and silent, except for the deep rumble of the fire now consuming the car.

Very quietly, you whispered his name— although not exactly to yourself, and certainly not to Ani: Who, whether he was still living or not, would never have been able to hear it.

You thought about the time you’d spent abusing him at his own insistence. You thought about burning him with cigarettes and kicking him, and about his coming to steal you in the middle of the night. You remembered his lips and tongue, and— for some reason— the way he’d told you he wanted to kiss you under the water in the shower, before he’d found your fork.

You thought once more about those hand-kisses; then, about him smacking you in the back of the head with the same palm he liked to use to caress your face in spite of himself. Then, about his dreams— and his wife.

_”Thank you, my love.”_

Those words had always been for her. You realized, now, how much he’d missed her; how much he had regretted hurting her— and how he’d been too sick to do anything about it which could have remotely helped. He had never really enjoyed being hurt, had he? If he had, he’d been too ashamed of it to show it to her; perhaps his shame had been the source of his lashing out. Maybe he felt like a failure. Had all of those sad hard-ons been meant for her? Had he just been too scared to show someone he truly loved the darkest side of himself? Of course, he’d been sick in other ways, too. It was all pure speculation, on your part: Yet another collection of questions to which you’d never have any answers.

You did know that he had tried to fix it, in his own way. Anakin did everything in his own way, it seemed: He was used to that. Between his arm and his mind— not to mention his strange, determined heart— he could never have done things the way other people did.

You wished, suddenly, that you’d been able to get to know him better.

 _No._ No, that wasn’t quite right— actually, you wished he had just gone ahead and seen a psychiatrist instead of you after all.

You’d been thinking too long, again, and it seemed the roof had begun to catch. You marvelled at how quickly it was all happening.

It became difficult to look, then, and so you turned around and walked back toward the road. There was nothing you could do for Anakin... but, then, there never really had been. The fire still roared behind you, but it seemed infinitely more distant with each step you took. You should have felt a lot of things, really, but right now you couldn’t seem to. Feelings about this would come later, you guessed— after the shock of it had worn off. 

You looked down the empty stretch of dirt and gravel; gazed back at the way you’d come. You thanked the stars in the sky that Anakin had not had the presence of mind to do much of anything other than drive a straight line, on his way here with you. You were glad he’d bought you boots.

You knew that if you walked, and just kept walking, you would eventually be okay. Optimistically, you mused that perhaps Anakin would be okay, too.

Maybe— if he was very, _very_ lucky— he would finally be able to make things right with his wife, now.

You wanted that for him, because Ani truly had always been one of your favourites.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for getting through this with me!
> 
> (If you want Ani to come back to you all hot & crispy, I wrote this: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22600639)


End file.
